The  Marbeau  Cousins. 


The  Marbeau  Cousins 


By 
Harry  Stillwell  Edwards, 

Author  of  "  Sons  and  Fathers,"  etc. 


Chicago  and  New  York: 

Rand,  McNally  &  Company, 

Publishers. 


Copyright,  1897,  by  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards. 
Copyright,  1898,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 


THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

BY  HARRY  STILLWELL  EDWARDS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  FLIGHT. 

Early  in  the  summer  of  1886,  the  simple  mountain 
people  of  Kentucky,  Tennessee  and  Georgia,  who  let 
the  pine  and  cedar  knots  blaze  upon  their  hearths  after 
dark  and  friendly  shafts  of  light  pierce  the  night  through 
the  cracks  of  their  cabin  walls,  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
man  whom,  at  first,  they  invariably  regarded  with  sus- 
picion, but  in  the  end  as  invariably  favored  with  their  rude 
hospitalities,  without  expectation  of  reward. 

This  man  was  never  known  to  spend  more  than  a 
few  hours  at  any  house  and  no  one  ever  saw  him  by  day- 
light, nor  the  second  time.  What  became  of  him  during 
the  day  was  not  known,  but  it  was  easy  for  those  who  had 
defied  the  revenue  officers  to  guess  that  the  rocks  and 
vine-encumbered  ravines  furnished  him  convenient  ref- 
uge. A  few  whose  business  called  them  abroad  after 
dark  saw  him  shadow-like  glide  by  in  the  moonlight  and 
disappear  in  the  woods.  Once  the  suspicious  moonshin- 
ers detained  him,  and  once  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  gov- 
ernment officers  engaged  upon  a  raid.  No  one  harmed 
him. 

Seen  by  the  wavering  light  of  the  blazing  chunks  as  he 
stood  in  the  mountain  cabins,  he  was  a  man  of  not  more 
than  thirty-two  years,  erect,  lightly  but  compactly  built 
and  of  little  more  than  the  medium  stature.  His  hands 
were  small  and  white  where  the  skin  shone  through  the 


2200604 


6  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

stains  upon  them,  and  his  feet  were  incased  in  the  remains 
of  what  had  been  good  gaiters.  His  worn  and  torn  cloth- 
ing showed  in  its  texture  something  superior  to  the  rough 
jeans  and  homespuns  of  the  mountains. 

All  these  details  were  carefully  studied  out  by  his 
hosts,  for  the  lives  of  many  of  them  called  for  the  utmost 
caution  in  dealings  with  strangers,  and  revenue  spies  were 
not  infrequently  abroad.  But  the  examinations  always 
ended  when  the  questioning  gaze  returned  to  the  man's 
face,  which  was,  while  grave  and  immobile,  singularly 
open  and  trust-inspiring;  the  face  of  a  man  then  under 
self-control  only  by  powerful  efforts  and  wearing  a  record 
that  was  indefinable  if  it  stood  not  for  mental  suffering. 

But  this  face  drew  much  of  its  trust-inspiring  quality 
from  the  eyes.  Its  expression,  despite  its  sadness  and 
misery,  was  admirable;  the  eyes  large,  brown  and  singu- 
larly luminous,  the  ray  in  them  being  an  exaggeration 
of  that  strange  flame,  which,  if  it  be  not  the  spirit  itself, 
is  born  of  it,  and  is  oftener  seen  in  the  eyes  of  dogs  than 
men.  Whatever  its  origin,  this  noticeable,  nay  entranc- 
ing light,  seemed  to  suggest  and  index  a  power,  an  en- 
ergy, almost  a  fever  within,  that,  guarded  and  desperately 
restrained  at  every  other  point,  betrayed  itself  at  the  eye. 

To  these  conspicuous  points  was  added  a  voice  that  was 
full,  round  and  musical  and  abounding  in  those  overtones 
which  make  some  voices  so  pleasant  upon  the  ear. 

He  told  the  same  story  everywhere;  he  was  one  of  the 
people,  he  needed  friends  and  help  for  the  time  being; 
he  had  no  money  nor  wanted  any — a  little  food, — that 
was  all.  His  business?  He  had  none.  He  was  making 
his  way  to  friends,  on  foot  because  he  could  not  afford  to 
ride.  Different  people  drew  different  inferences;  but 
they  gave  him  of  their  humble  stores.  He  thanked  them 
gravely,  and  passed  on  out  of  their  lives  forever;  but  not 
always  from  their  memory. 

The  hill  country  succeeded  the  mountains,  and  still  the 
stranger  held  a  southward  course,  avoiding  the  cities  and 
towns  and  even  villages,  when  possible.  He  kept  close 


THE  FLIGHT.  7 

to  the  open  heart  of  nature  and  her  simpler  children,  in- 
stinctively. One  evening  at  dusk,  footsore  and  utterly 
wearied,  he  came  to  a  swift  stream  that  wended  its  way 
to  the  sea.  The  path  he  traversed  led  to  the  ferry,  and 
there  tied  up  for  the  night  was  the  great  flat  with  a  bateau 
attached.  Without  hesitation  he  entered  the  latter,  glid- 
ed under  the  darker  shadow  of  the  trees  and  disappeared 
from  the  scene. 

All  through  the  long  night  the  traveler's  weary  arm 
sent  the  little  craft  southward  under  the  stars,  his  gaze 
strained  for  rocks,  in  which  the  stream  abounded,  and 
once,  caught  in  the  rapids  despite  his  desperate  efforts,  it 
swung  crosswise,  rolled  over  a  submerged  obstruction 
and  hurled  him  into  the  water.  No  cry  escaped  him,  no 
prayer  to  heaven.  Rescue  seemed  impossible  in  that 
lonely  river  at  midnight.  Over  the  rapids  they  went,  and 
when  the  foamy  level  below  was  reached  the  man  was 
bruised,  exhausted  and  half  drowned.  He  had  clung 
mechanically  to  the  paddle,  the  only  tangible  object  in 
reach  of  his  hand.  The  overturned  boat  floated  near  him. 
Swimming  and  wading  he  pushed  it  ashore,  righted  it 
again  and  hatless  and  chilled  to  the  bones  renewed  his 
perilous  journey.  He  suffered,  but  with  the  dumb  un- 
complaining stoicism  of  the  Indian.  Indeed,  he  resem- 
bled nothing  so  much  in  his  swift  silent  passage  as  one  of 
the  vanished  braves,  a  Cherokee  or  Choctaw  stealing 
through  an  enemy's  country. 

And  then,  as  eagerly  the  lonely  boatman  searched  with 
straining  eyes  the  shapes  and  outlines  of  the  hills  that 
bounded  the  valley,  there  came  upon  the  clouds  over- 
hanging a  forward  bend  of  the  stream,  a  strong  upward 
glow.  For  the  first  time  in  that  long  struggle  an  excla- 
mation burst  from  his  lips,  an  expression  of  satisfaction. 
Keeping  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  he  glided  swiftly  by 
a  large  city,  its  many  lights  doubling  themselves  in 
the  waters  that  carried  him.  The  rise  and  fall  of  his  pad- 
dle were  noiseless;  his  passing  was  as  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud  or  a  log  drifting  endwise  to  the  sea.  It  was  nearly 


8  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

day  again;  no  one  was  abroad  upon  the  river;  no  one 
hailed  him  and  no  sound  broke  the  stillness  except  the 
hissing  steam  of  locomotives  harnessed  for  their  jour- 
neys, and  the  far  away  stroke  of  a  town  clock.  On  under 
the  bridges  he  went,  and  then  the  lights  died  away  behind, 
and  the  hills  ceased  to  hem  him  in.  The  low  country 
with  its  stretches  of  cypress  and  cane,  its  festoons  of  gray 
moss  and  long  trailing  banners  lifting  and  falling  in  the 
faint  breeze,  received  him.  Like  a  shadow  merging  into 
a  shadow,  he  passed  out  of  the  visible. 

The  traveler  felt  the  change.  His  pace  slackened. 
Then  he  began  to  search  the  shore  line  closely,  returning 
wearily  more  than  once  over  his  course,  until  finally  a 
dark  narrow  opening  in  the  canebrake  that  walled  in  the 
stream  caught  his  eye.  He  promptly  turned  his  boat  into 
it.  Here  it  was  utterly  dark,  for  the  stars  were  out  and 
he  made  but  slow  progress,  the  little  bayou  winding 
through  the  tangled  swamp  in  a  most  exasperating  way. 
But  he  proceeded  with  confidence.  Whoever  he  was  he 
had  found  familiar  scenes,  for  no  human  being  in  those 
black  depths  could  have  advanced  without  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  way. 

The  swamp  ended  at  the  base  of  a  low  hill  where  the 
table  lands  ran  out,  and  in  the  clearing  on  the  margin  of 
the  bayou  stood  a  cabin,  light  glimmering  under  the 
closed  door. 

For  the  first  time  on  his  long  journey  the  traveler  hesi- 
tated before  the  friendly  light  of  a  cabin.  This  time  he 
sat  motionless  in  the  boat  and  listened  intently.  What  at 
first  seemed  the  murmur  of  winds  in  the  trees  in  the 
depths  behind  him,  swelled  out  clearer  as  the  tones  of  a 
human  voice  beyond  that  door,  a  wild,  weird,  wordless 
monotone  of  sound,  a  chant  as  mystic  as  ever  dervish 
sang  under  an  eastern  moon. 

The  man  in  the  boat  was  strangely  affected.  The  pad- 
dle dropped  from  his  grasp,  and  burying  his  face  in  his 
hands  he  bent  silently  to  an  emotion  that  shook  his  frame 
as  a  vine  is  shaken  by  the  passing  of  a  wind.  But  what- 


v  THE  FLIGHT.  9 

ever  the  storm  that  had  arisen  within,  whatever  the  mem- 
ories stirred,  he  at  length  regained  self-control.  Thrust- 
ing his  paddle  deep  into  the  water  again  he  sent  his  boat 
ashore,  stepped  stiffly  out,  made  his  way  to  the  end  of  the 
little  building  and  applied  his  eye  to  a  crevice.  The  sing- 
ing ceased  abruptly,  and,  as  he  drew  back  into  the  dark- 
ness, all  was  silence  except  that  in  the  swamp  a  laughing 
owl  awoke  the  echoes  with  unearthly  cachinnations. 
Going  confidently  to  the  door  he  drew  the  latchstring 
and  entered.  A  woman  sat  in  a  low  chair  before  the  fire- 
place, her  back  to  him.  She  raised  her  head  and  listened 
intently  without  turning. 


10  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

« 

CHAPTER  II. 

LIVE!  LIVE  TO  KILL! 

Then  was  enacted  one  of  those  dramas,  inexplicable  by 
any  known  rule,  in  which  subtle  intelligence  is  born  and 
asserts  control.  The  woman  suddenly  straightened  bolt 
upright  in  her  chair,  and,  the  silence  continuing,  her  aged 
form  arose  until  its  full  height  of  six  feet  was  visible  to 
the  man  who  stood  with  folded  arms  behind  her.  The 
great,  gaunt  figure,  with  its  wrinkled  yellow  neck  and 
wisps  of  gray  hair  projecting  from  her  plaid  turban,  wav- 
ered a  moment  in  the  changing  firelight.  Her  voice 
broke  the  silence,  weak  and  full  of  quavers,  but  gathering 
strength  as  her  evident  excitement  increased. 

"I  saw  young  Marster  under  de  new  moon,"  she  said, 
"lost  and  ersleep  in  de  hills!  I  hyard  es  voice  when  de 
moon  was  full;  an'  all  de  dark  nights  I  hyard  'im  callin' 
for  Silvy  tell  I  cyant  sleep.  An'  now  I  hyah  es  footstep 
on  my  cabin  flo'."  She  waited. 

The  man  made  no  answer.  Slowly,  with  dread,  she 
turned  her  wrinkled  face  and  fixed  upon  him  her  weak, 
dim  orbs.  At  sight  of  the  hatless  figure  and  the  eyes  of 
the  man,  now  blazing  in  his  bearded  face,  she  uttered  a 
low  moan,  followed  by  the  single  word,  a  mere  whisper: 

"Dead!" 

"Yes,  dead,"  he  began.  She  caught  her  breath  with  a 
gasp  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  rude  mantel,  while 
he  continued,  "dead  to  the  world;  but  to  you,  Mammy 
Silvy,  to  you  and  one  man,  alive!"  He  rested  his  hand 
lightly  upon  her  shoulder  as  he  spoke.  "You  are  the  one 
friend  that  Chilon  can  rely  on,"  he  continued  bitterly; 
"but  he  has  one  enemy,  and  life  is  worth  living  if  we  have 
one  friend  and  one  enemy!"  Still  doubtful  and  trembling, 
the  woman  took  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  and  struggled 
for  self-control  while  she  sought  to  read  his  face. 


LIVE!  LIVE  TO  KILL!  II 

"Changed!  Changed!"  she  whispered.  He  looked  away 
a  moment,  his  head  drooping. 

"Twelve  years  of  the  life  I  have  led  is  apt  to  change  a 
man,"  he  said.  "I  am  changed;  but  the  headstrong  boy 
that  left  you  so  long  ago,  who  used  to  play  upon  your 
cabin  floor  and  sleep  the  noon  hour  on  your  white  bed — 
well,  the  boy  is  a  man  conscious  of  his  strength.  Chilon 
is  dead ;  but  he  who  lives  in  his  place  is  the  friend  of  his 
friend,  and  to  him  who  slew  Chilon" — he  secerned  to  choke 
a  moment  and  then  with  unrestrained  passion  the  words 
broke  forth,  "he  is  the  deadliest  enemy  a  living  man  ever 
had."  His  voice  rose  under  his  emotion.  The  woman 
caught  the  infection.  Her  tall  form  straightened  again  in 
the  unsteady  light  as  if  youth,  sleeping  within  her,  had 
received  an  electric  shock.  In  the  far  depths  of  her  fad- 
ing memories,  some  tribal  instinct  heard  and  responded 
to  the  call  to  war.  Ninety  years  had  weighted  her  with 
their  burdens,  but  the  savage  was  still  alive. 

"He  shall  die!"  she  said  simply. 

"No,  he  shall  live,  live  to  rot  in  prison  and  eat  out 
his  soul  with  remorse  and  unsatisfied  revenge,  live  as  a 
chained  beast  lives,  and  die  at  last  as  the  dog  dies  — 
may  God  give  me  eternal  damnation  if — I — forgive — 
forgive — "  He  tore  at  his  throat,  gasped,  and  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  rage  and  grief  threw  out  his  arm,  falling  full 
length  and  senseless  upon  the  floor.  Instantly  the  aged 
black  seemed  imbued  with  new  life.  She  sank  beside 
him,  her  face  close  to  his,  her  hands  on  wrist  and  tem- 
ple. Reaching  back  she  snatched  from  a  crevice  in  her 
chimney  a  long  keen  knife  and  drew  his  hand  to  her  lap. 
When  she  released  it,  blood  trickled  down  the  wrist,  and 
the  writhing  figure  lay  stilled.  "Live,"  he  heard  her  say, 
as  his  vague  gaze  rested  upon  her.  "Live  to  kill."  A 
flush  swept  over  his  face,  and  his  eyes  closed  wearily. 


12  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER    III. 

"SPEAK,  IS  SHE  LIVING?" 

The  name  of  the  man  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
cabin  of  the  negress  that  summer  night  was  Chilon 
Marbeau.  He  was  a  fugitive  from  justice,  but  no  hard 
pressed  one.  He  came  in  pursuance  of  plans  carefully 
laid  and  pondered  for  many  a  year.  Waiting  and  watch- 
ing for  an  opportunity  had  frozen  the  youth  in  his  face 
and  put  his  soul  into  his  eyes.  Plans  were  laid  in  ex- 
pectation that  his  opportunity  would  come;  it  did  come: 
he  seized  upon  it,  and  followed  them  out  exactly.  No 
feature  had  failed.  He  reached  the  river  at  the  point 
aimed  for,  found  the  little  boat  as  anticipated  and  came 
to  the  cabin  as  he  had  come  in  his  dreams  a  thousand 
times.  No  one  was  on  his  trail;  no  man  could  have 
followed  the  zig-zag  route  he  had  chosen.  Whatever 
his  reasons  for  hiding,  there  was  little  cause  to  fear  pur- 
suit from  the  outer  world  after  he  had  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  woman's  cabin.  The  uncertain  quan- 
tity in  his  calculation  had  been  her  life.  If  she  were 
dead  there  was  no  safety  for  him  in  the  neighborhood; 
but  the  river  was  there  and  the  boat,  and  on  the  coast, 
lumber  ships  were  loading  for  foreign  ports.  Escape 
was  easy  when  once  the  cabin  had  been  reached;  but 
escape  was  not  the  only  aim  in  the  life  of  this  man. 

Chilon  Marbeau  in  choosing  this  refuge,  had  done  so 
with  consummate  skill  and  perfect  knowledge  of  all  that 
offered  for  the  purposes  in  mind.  The  civilized  sections 
of  the  world  did  not  contain  for  him  a  safer  place  than 
Silvy's  cabin.  Isolated  upon  a  great  plantation,  whose 
acres  were  numbered  by  the  thousands,  distant  from 
roads  and  byways,  it  was  a  place  that  white  men  would 
not  stumble  upon  in  years;  but  the  most  fortunate  fact 
for  his  purposes  lay  in  the  calling  and  character  of  the 
occupant,  for  Silvy  was  the  last  and  most  noted  in  her 


"SPEAK,  IS  SHE  LIVING?"  13 

day  of  all  those  voodoos  or  "doctors"  once  famous  in 
the  south.  Her  giant  frame,  her  pale  gray  eyes,  wrinkled 
face  and  white  hair,  her  knowledge  of  herbs  and  medi- 
cine, and  the  fact  that  she  had  brought  her  practices 
and  superstitions  from  Africa,  all  combined  to  make  her 
a  being  feared  and  reverenced.  In  truth  there  did  not 
live  a  negro  who  would,  even  with  permission  and  in 
daylight,  have  entered  her  house,  nor  for  that  matter 
have  opened  his  mouth  about  her  under  any  circum- 
stances. When  her  services  were  needed  for  any  pur- 
pose, the  visitor  called  from  a  distance  and  if  she  chose 
to  respond  she  went  forth.  If  she  did  not  the  visit  must 
be  repeated  until  her  convenience  or  whim  was  suited. 
She  still  drew  her  rations  from  the  family  smoke  house, 
and  was  the  recipient  of  many  small  contributions  from 
her  patients  and  patrons.  But  none  interfered  with  her. 

The  chief  danger  that  imperiled  the  man's  plans  lay 
in  the  enfeebled  mental  and  physical  condition  of  the 
woman.  Upon  her  he  depended  for  information  of 
which  he  had  been  for  ten  years  deprived. 

Chilon  Marbeau  realized  the  calamity  that  threatened 
him  when  he  recovered  from  the  spell  that  bodily 
fatigue  and  the  long  mental  strain  had  brought  upon 
him.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  the  negress  was  sitting 
by  his  side  crooning  a  rude  lullaby  and  evidently  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  he  was  still  the  little  child 
that  had  been  wont  many  years  before  to  make  her  cabin 
his  play  ground.  The  memory  of  those  old  days,  when 
he  used  to  lie  there  and  listen  to  her  queer  myths — days 
full  of  sunshine  and  happiness,  the  golden  days  of  youth, 
rose  within  him  with  almost  suffocating  tenderness.  All 
associated  with  them  were  gone  forever!  Only  himself, 
as  far  as  he  knew,  and  this  tottering  human  wreck  re- 
mained. And  what  was  he? 

Recovering  his  steadiness,  although  still  weak,  he  be- 
gan eagerly  to  try  to  bring  her  mind  back  to  the  pres- 
ent and  to  recent  events,  but  seemingly  in  vain.  The 
startling  suddenness  and  manner  of  his  appearance  and 


14  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

his  contagious  excitement  and  passion,  had,  for  the  mo- 
ment, aroused  her  drooping  mind.  But  it  had  lapsed 
again  into  lethargy.  One  name,  "Lena,"  was  ever  upon 
his  lips;  or  "Celeste,"  his  sister's,  and  his  Uncle  Charles; 
he  tried  them  all  in  vain.  The  sounds  seemed  to  carry 
no  message  to  her  bewildered  senses. 

Her  subsequent  history  was  marked  by  flashes  of  men- 
tal activity  under  the  stimulus  of  accidental  memories; 
and  sometimes  for  hours  she  succeeded  in  connecting 
herself  closely  with  the  present;  but  her  moods  were 
variable  and  uncertain.  All  that  the  impatient  man 
could  hope  for,  then  or  afterwards,  was  to  take  advantage 
of  her  moments  of  consciousness,  and  gradually  extract 
from  her  such  points  of  the  desired  information  as  she 
might  possess;  and  this  he  soon  found  exceedingly  dif- 
ficult, for  when  sanity  departs  through  age,  habit  is  still 
strong,  and  reticence  had  been  the  lifelong  habit  of  this 
strange  woman. 

So  it  was  that  while  he  rested,  only  little  by  little 
could  he  gain  from  her  any  information  of  his  family 
and  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  since  his  departure ; 
and  of  the  truth  of  this  he  was  not  sure.  Questions 
alarmed  her  cautious  nature  and  when  directly  interro- 
gated, she  was  apt  to  close  her  mouth  in  obstinate 
silence.  When  he  attempted  to  lead  her  mind  to  the  sub- 
ject nearest  his  heart,  ofttimes  she  would  ramble  off  on 
events  that  antedated  his  very  existence. 

Once  at  midnight,  baffled  by  the  strange  limitations 
of  his  existence,  having  wandered  away  and  viewed  the 
familiar  house  of  his  boyhood  from  the  distance,  brood- 
ing in  the  shadows,  he  returned  and  burst  into  the  cabin, 
crying  passionately: 

"Is  she  living  or  dead?  Can't  you  see,  can't  you  see 
the  suspense  is  killing  me?"  As  the  vibration  of  one  note 
sometimes  recalls  a  whole  song,  so  his  voice  startled  her 
again  into  partial  consciousness.  She  gave  him  a  long 
pitying  look  and  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  mean  dead?"  he  asked,  his  voice  failing  him 


"SPEAK,  IS  SHE  LIVING?"  15 

with  sudden  weakness — "you  do  not  mean  dead?"  Again 
she  looked  upon  him  steadily  a  moment,  only  to  turn 
away  in  silence.  "Speak  to  me,  Mammy,"  he  pleaded, 
plucking  her  sleeve,  "you  must,  you  must!  Where  is 
Lena,  where  is  my  wife?"  The  woman  looked  with 
genuine  sorrow  into  his  eager  face;  of  this  he  was  sure. 
"She  is  dead  then,"  he  said  in  despair,  "dead — lost  to 
me  forever!  It  was  too  late!"  Her  head  sank  upon  her 
breast;  his  hand  relaxed,  and  he  turned  away  his  face 
that  even  she  might  not  behold  its  abject  misery.  She 
arose  then,  slowly,  and  brought  him  a  gourd  of  water. 

"Drink!"  she  said  simply,  "it  is  too  late!" 

He  was  for  hours  silent.  One  of  the  two  incentives 
that  had  sustained  him  so  many  years  was  gone.  It  was 
his  one  day  of  weakness,  the  one  day  that  almost  saw 
the  white  flag  upon  his  citadel.  Afterwards  he  tried  to 
turn  his  mind  from  its  despair  and  bring  to  its  support 
the  wonderful  spirit  that  had  so  long  helped  him  defy 
fate.  But  love  was  gone ! 

The  woman  mumbled  away  the  hours,  and  more  than 
once  he  heard  the  name  of  his  wife  upon  her  lips.  And 
then  at  last  the  broken  threads  tied  themselves  in  her 
wavering  mind  and  she  told  graphically  of  a  runaway 
horse,  of  entangled  skirts  and  a  dead  woman.  A  cry 
burst  from  his  lips.  In  his  mother's  family  there  had 
been  a  Lena,  and  so  had  she  died  thirty  years  ago !  The 
woman  still  looked  upon  him  with  sorrow: 

"Too  late!  too  late!"  she  muttered.  But  hope  had 
been  born  again  with  him. 


l6  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER    IV. 
THE  RECORDS  FOUND. 

The  situation  of  Chilon  Marbeau  was  at  that  time 
without  parallel  in  history  or  fiction.  Absolutely  free 
to  come  and  go,  he  was  also  absolutely  cut  off  from  all 
channels  of  information.  His  only  safe  point  of  contact 
and  communication  with  the  world  was  this  singular 
old  woman,  whose  mind  was  already  losing  its  hold  upon 
that  world,  whose  memory  was  defective  and  habits  such 
as  to  render  it  practically  useless  outside  her  house. 
His  shoes  were  now  nearly  gone,  his  clothing  dilapi- 
dated to  the  last  degree,  and  hat  he  had  none.  He 
could  not  therefore  venture  into  the  city  after  dark  for 
more  supplies,  even  had  he  any  money  wherewith  to 
purchase  or  were  indiscreet  enough  to  take  the  risk. 
His  appearance  was  such  that  he  would  not  have  dared 
to  ask  a  question  of  or  apply  to  any  person  for  work. 
He  was,  to  look  upon,  a  veritable  wildman  of  the  swamp, 
one  who  would  be  a  prey  to  suspicious  police  in  the  city, 
an  object  of  dangerous  curiosity  and  gossip  in  the  coun- 
try. He  realized  it  all  too  well. 

Still  there  was  in  him  a  sense  of  freedom,  so  novel, 
so  restful,  that  much  of  his  feverish  impatience  passed 
away,  a  freedom  so  sweet  that  every  morning  his  first 
realization  of  it  sent  a  new  flush  of  pleasure  from  heart 
to  cheek.  What  the  future  held  he  could  not  guess ;  he 
had  his  plans,  but  they  were  impossible  until  he  could 
ascertain  the  condition  and  circumstances  of  his  family 
and  his  present  necessities  were  supplied.  But  in  the 
meantime  he  had  freedom. 

Mere  food  soon  became  an  object  for  him  to  strive 
after;  for  the  slender  stores  of  the  old  woman  seemed 
to  be  exhausted.  He  helped  her  in  the  only  possible 
way.  He  knew  the  treasures  of  that  old  cabin  and  where 
to  find  lines  and  hooks.  He  fixed  up  an  abundant  sup- 


THE  RECORDS  FOUND.  17 

ply  and  set  them  by  night  in  the  bayou  and  under  the 
river  willows.  And  in  this  occupation  he  stretched  his 
limbs  in  a  fuller  freedom,  paddling  his  boat,  while  the 
lines  hung  in  the  dark  waters,  up  stream  as  far  as  the 
city  to  gaze  upon  its  lights,  its  trains  roaring  across  the 
bridges  overhead,  and  listen  to  its  lessening  sigh  as  it 
sunk  into  slumber.  It  was  a  novel  sensation  for  him, 
bareheaded,  and  in  rags,  to  be  lurking  in  the  shadow  of 
some  tree  in  sight  of  those  familiar  steeples  and  in  sound 
of  their  bells.  His  companions  had  been  gay  ones  there, 
hightoned,  chivalric,  full  of  the  southern  fire  and  gallan- 
try. Were  they  married  and  settled  now?  Were  they 
men  of  prominence?  The  prospects  of  none  had  been 
brighter  than  his.  And  he  at  thirty-two  was  an  outlaw 
hiding  in  the  shadows  by  his  native  city. 

The  only  reflection  that  gave  him  comfort  at  such 
times  was  that  while  he  had  come  back  without  knowl- 
edge of  any  facts  that  had  transpired  within  his  family 
circle  during  ten  years,  the  family  were  probably  as 
ignorant  of  his  life;  and  only  one  man  in  the  world 
abroad  had  known  his  real  name.  But  for  that  one 
man  he  might  dare  all.  How  much  had  been  revealed? 
That  he  must  ascertain. 

His  freedom,  broad  as  it  was,  became  at  length  too 
limited  for  his  youth  and  impatience;  and  with  the  full 
return  of  his  physical  and  mental  forces  came  something 
of  the  old  recklessness  that  characterized  his  boyhood. 
Clothing  would  never  come  to  him  by  chance,  nor 
would  information.  And  the  will  is  king!  He  deter- 
mined to  settle  for  once  and  all  the  mystery  that  over- 
hung his  family.  He  would  enter  the  house  of  his 
uncle! 

On  the  night  of  the  day  that  brought  this  decision, 
Chilon  turned  his  back  upon  the  swamp  when  he  left 
the  cabin  and  passed  up  the  hill  to  the  great  plateau 
that  constituted  the  arable  lands  of  Ravenswood,  and 
soon  found  himself  in  front  of  the  Marbeau  mansion.  It 
was  a  massive,  old  colonial  building  whose  every  detail 


l8  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

was  indelibly  fixed  upon  his  memory.  Change  is  slow 
upon  the  southern  plantation,  and  time,  as  far  as  he  could 
judge,  seemed  to  have  spared  this  house.  He  had  gone 
forth  from  it  a  light-hearted  boy;  change  had  not 
spared  him.  Stilling  the  rising  tumult  in  his  bosom  he 
passed  noiselessly  through  the  shrubbery  of  the  front 
yard  well  hid  in  the  shadow,  and  performed  once  more 
a  feat  common  in  his  old  boyish  days  of  misrule;  he 
swung  himself  into  a  giant  cedar  that  stood  near  the 
rear  and  dropping  lightly  upon  the  roof  of  the  side 
veranda  found  himself  at  the  window  of  his  once  well- 
known  room.  The  shutters  opened  stiffly  to  his  touch, 
and  the  sash  responded  unwillingly,  but  there  was  little 
noise.  In  a  moment  more  Chilon  stood  again  in  his  old 
quarters. 

The  situation  was  now  full  of  uncertainty,  if  not  dan- 
ger; he  did  not  know  that  his  uncle  still  occupied  the 
house,  nor  that  the  room  he  had  entered  was  empty. 

Chilon  ascertained  that  the  room  was  not  occupied  by 
touching  the  bed.  The  bedding  had  been  removed. 
Closing  the  shutters  carefully  he  lit  a  bit  of  candle  that 
he  had  provided  and  with  deep  emotion  gazed  about  the 
familiar  place.  Only  the  bedding  was  gone.  Otherwise 
the  room  was  as  he  had  left  it.  He  could  not,  viewing 
the  well-known  objects  about  him,  realize  that  youth 
had  passed  since  his  eyes  last  beheld  them  and  his  foot- 
steps echoed  in  that  room.  In  the  corners  were  his  sad- 
dle and  oars,  his  gun  case,  riding  boots  and  jointed  rod ; 
on  the  walls  the  same  old  pictures.  In  the  closet  he 
found,  even,  some  of  his  clothing  still  hanging  as  he 
had  left  it,  but  moth-eaten  into  ruin.  He  turned  from 
it  all,  touched  and  saddened.  His  belongings  had  not 
been  cast  out.  They  awaited  his  coming. 

The  presence  in  that  room  of  these  objects  carried  to 
him  also  another  meaning.  The  house  had  not  changed 
hands.  Extinguishing  his  candle,  for  the  rooms  were  all 
transomed,  he  made  his  way  through  the  silent  hall  to- 
ward the  stairs.  He  waited  by  the  door  of  the  room  that 


THE  RECORDS  FOUND.  19 

had  been  Lena's,  listening  intently.  No  sound  came  from 
within.  Gently  he  tried  the  latch.  It  was  locked,  and 
then  his  hand  touched  the  key  on  the  outside.  Saddened, 
he  passed  on,  descended  the  stairway  and  stood  by  his 
uncle's  door.  It  was  half  open,  and  within  the  room  he 
heard  the  deep,  strong  breathing  of  a  man.  With  noise- 
less footsteps  he  left  it,  and  entered  the  library. 

As  in  that  dear  old  room,  with  its  East  India  lounge 
and  cool  leathern  chairs  so  well  remembered,  he  relit  his 
candle,  a  low  cry  of  triumph  escaped  him.  Upon  the 
center  table  under  the  extinguished  reading  lamp  were 
letters  addressed  to  his  Uncle,  Charles  Marbeau,  and 
near  them,  newspapers.  He  caught  up  the  latter  as 
a  famishing  man  seizes  upon  food,  for  through  them 
he  was  again  in  touch  with  the  world.  The  object  of 
his  venture  had  been  accomplished  and  so  profound  was 
his  satisfaction  that  he  prepared  at  once  to  depart,  when 
a  new  idea  flashed  into  mind.  If  these  papers  were  so 
valuable,  the  preceding  issues  were  doubly  so. 

The  library  at  Ravenswood  was  supplied  on  all  sides 
with  shelving  reaching  to  the  ceiling  and  closed  in  by 
glass  doors.  But  the  lower  three  feet  projected  and  were 
closed  by  separate  doors  and  used  for  files  of  certain 
papers,  and  for  magazines  and  pamphlets.  The  arrange- 
ment and  custom  were  well  remembered  by  the  silent 
visitor.  Throwing  open  these  latter  doors  he  bent  to  as- 
certain if  the  family  custom  had  continued.  Upon  the 
files  of  bound  papers  his  finger  traced  backward  the 
dates.  None  were  missing.  They  were  all  there,  the 
sealed  years  of  life  in  the  world  from  which  he  had  been 
isolated  so  long.  He  selected  several  of  these — 1873, 
1874,  1875 — and  immediately  withdrew.  In  the  hall 
above  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  enter  the 
locked  apartment.  It  was,  of  course,  vacant,  but  a  vase 
held  a  long-withered  rose  that  shattered  at  his  touch. 
He  stood  a  few  moments  resting  his  forehead  against 
the  mantel,  and  then  without  a  second  glance  about  him 
withdrew  hurriedly,  almost  precipitately. 


20  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER   V. 
THE  VOODOO'S  SECRET. 

But  outside  the  house  his  mood  changed.  The 
volumes  he  bore  were  dearer  than  life,  by  far;  they  were 
to  arm  him  with  knowledge  of  past  events  and  settle  for- 
ever, perhaps,  the  doubts  that  were  consuming  him.  Al- 
though he  had  become  accustomed  to  self-control,  it  was 
with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  could  restrain  his  ex- 
citement when  he  reached  the  cabin  and  deposited  his 
precious  burden.  He  looked  up  under  the  spell  of  a  pen- 
etrating gaze  and  found  the  woman's  eyes  fixed  upon 
him,  uneasiness  expressed  in  her  aged  face.  Whether 
she  had  affected  much  of  the  ignorance  and  imbecility 
with  which  she  had  received  his  questions  or  whether  a 
transient  sanity  was  at  that  moment  in  control,  the  man 
realized  that  she  understood  the  situation  and  was  un- 
easy. She  spent  her  time  night  and  day  for  the  most 
part  dozing  above  the  flame  or  embers  on  her  hearth, 
and  to  this  occupation  she  now  returned.  Thrusting  a 
piece  of  lightwood  into  the  coals  Chilon  began  to  ex- 
plore his  treasures,  but  ever  and  anon  he  glanced  up 
into  the  wrinkled  face  to  find  the  strange  eyes  fixed 
steadily  upon  him. 

"What  is  it,  Mammy?"  he  asked  carelessly  as  he 
turned  the  pages.  There  was  no  answer  for  so  long  a 
time  he  forgot  his  own  question;  but  at  length  she  said 
simply: 

"Silvy's  hair  was  black  an'  her  eyes  were  dark." 

"Ah?"  He  continued  his  reading.  She  said  no  more. 
Presently  as  he  turned  page  after  page  he  repeated  the 
words  to  himself.  "Silvy's  hair  was  black  and  her  eyes 
were  dark;"  and  then  he,  too,  began  to  study  the  flames. 
The  words  did  not  amount  to  much,  but  the  easy,  confi- 
dent tones  so  different  from  her  usual  mumblings  clung 
to  him.  "How  could  Silvy's  eyes  have  been  dark?"  he 


THE  VOODOO'S  SECRET.  21 

asked  himself  idly.  "Silvy's  eyes  were  gray,  pale  gray. 
Does  age  change  the  color  of  one's  eyes?"  The  violet 
eyed  babe  always  became  the  brown-eyed,  he  had  heard ; 
and  his  own  eyes,  he  had  been  told,  varied  their  shades, 
as  did  those  of  many  people,  with  moods  or  changing 
conditions  of  health.  But  did  anyone's  eyes  ever  pass 
from  dark  to  light  and  so  remain?  Could  even  drugs 
effect  this?  Besides,  why  this  remark  at  such  a  time? 

Chilon  knew  the  indirectness  of  the  African  mind. 

"What  changed  them,  Mammy?"  he  asked  at  length, 
with  curiosity. 

"My  mother,"  she  said  simply  and  without  hesitation. 
The  alteration  of  her  manner  would  have  been  enough 
to  startle  him  had  there  been  no  meaning  in  her  words. 
He  let  his  pages  fall  back  into  their  places. 

"Your  mother!  To  make  you — a  doctor,  was  it?"  She 
nodded  her  head.  When  he  looked  at  her  again  her 
strange  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  the  peculiar  ex- 
pression he  had  before  remarked.  Under  the  impulse  of 
a  startling  idea  he  rose  suddenly  to  his  knees,  his  limbs 
shivering.  Some  subtle  power  had  transferred  her  mean- 
ing. He  touched  her  shriveled  arm. 

"Can  you,"  he  began.  She  looked  away  quickly. 
"Mammy!  Mammy!  if  you  will,  the  man  who  put  irons 
upon  these  arms,  who  robbed  me  of  all  that  makes  life 
beautiful,  who  stole  my  youth  and  freedom — ."  She 
started  violently.  His  voice  was  now  ringing  out  into 
the  night,  and  she  stood  erect  with  sudden  energy. 
Again  in  her  face  he  saw  for  one  brief  moment  the  flash 
of  a  savagery  that  time  could  not  entirely  subdue.  "You 
know  what  it  is,"  he  continued  passionately,  "to  be 
robbed  of  these,  to  be  plucked  from  life  and  friends  and 
hope — ."  A  cry  escaped  her.  "You  know  what  it  is  to 
eat  out  your  heart  waiting  for  revenge  that  never  came! 
— help  me,  Mammy,  help  me!" 

She  trembled  violently  before  the  appeal  and  the  rush 
of  memories  it  had  stirred.  She  put  her  finger  with 


22  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

pathetic  tenderness  and  respect  upon  his  head,  and  then 
his  cheek  as  he  knelt. 

"You  will  be  old — old — old.  There  ain't  no  way 
back!" 

"I  am  old  already.    Revenge  will  make  me  young." 

"It  will  take  time — a  long  time!" 

"Let  it  be  years,  but  promise!" 

She  stood  a  moment  in  deep  thought. 

"Dreams  will  come,"  she  said,  touching  his  forehead, 
"dreams!  Some  of  them  will  stay."  He  reflected  upon 
her  answer.  She  meant  hallucinations. 

"I  will  risk  them  all,"  he  said.  "The  new  cannot  be 
sadder  than  the  old!"  For  answer  she  went  slowly  to 
her  room  and  stretched  herself  upon  her  cot.  She  never 
again  spoke  upon  the  subject. 


"REVENGE  IS  IMMORTAL."  23 

CHAPTER    VI. 
"REVENGE  IS  IMMORTAL." 

Left  alone  by  the  flickering  flame  Chilon  aroused  him- 
self from  the  half  stupor  into  which  reaction  had  plunged 
him,  and  opened  a  volume  of  papers  again.  This  time  he 
read  the  telegraphic  reports  of  1874.  Upon  a  date  graven 
indelibly  in  his  mind,  he  found  this  dispatch  from  the 
Associated  Press: 

"The  police  to-day  made  an  important  capture  in  the 
person  of  Carl  Garner,  the  youngest  and  most  dangerous 
counterfeiter  that  ever  operated  extensively  in  the  United 
States.  The  man  has  been  known  by  name  to  the  gov- 
ernment detectives  for  several  years,  and  there  are  stand- 
ing rewards  for  his  arrest  amounting  to  $2,000;  but  so 
successful  have  been  his  precautions,  all  efforts  to  get  a 
full  description  of  him  have  failed.  It  has  been  known 
for  a  year  that  a  surprise  in  the  youth  of  this  criminal 
awaited  the  public,  but  the  result  was  even  more  remark- 
able than  imagined.  The  police  decline  to  state  just  how 
his  capture  was  effected,  but  knowing  ones  say  that  a 
confederate  must  have  betrayed  him,  for  it  had  been 
many  months  since  he  was  actively  engaged  in  his  ne- 
farious profession,  and  when  seized  had  in  his  possession 
spurious  bills  of  a  new  counterfeit  issue  that  had  not 
made  its  appearance  anywhere.  The  new  counterfeit  is 
remarkable  from  the  fact  that  it  is  printed  upon  ap- 
parently genuine  government  paper,  and  is  so  nearly  per- 
fect that  only  a  microscopic  comparison  with  a  genuine 
bill  reveals  any  difference.  Every  cashier  to  whom  it  has 
been  submitted  at  first  pronounced  it  genuine.  A  treas- 
ury expert,  however,  pointed  out  a  slight  variation, 
which  for  good  reasons  will  not  be  made  known  until  it 
is  ascertained  definitely  whether  or  not  any  of  the  issue 
has  been  floated.  The  accused  man  is  persistent  in  his 
denial  that  he  is  Carl  Garner  or  a  counterfeiter  by  pro- 


24  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

fession,  but  declares  that  he  is  by  force  of  circumstances 
compelled  to  remain  silent  as  to  his  true  identity.  It  is 
the  opinion  of  detectives,  however,  that  he  is  the  go- 
between  of  a  dangerous  band  of  operators,  and  is  play- 
ing a  deep  and  skillful  game  to  shield  them.  They  are 
confident  that,  despite  his  youth,  the  right  man  has  been 
arrested,  a  conclusion  not  perhaps  unnatural  in  view 
of  the  large  reward  in  sight.  Garner  is  to  be  examined 
before  a  commissioner  to-day." 

The  face  of  the  man  in  the  cabin  was  a  study  as  he 
lifted  it  from  the  page,  and  sat  in  silent  reverie.  Slowly 
he  turned  the  pages  and  took  up  again  the  history  of  the 
case  that  interested  him  so  deeply. 

"The  counterfeiter,  Carl  Garner,  was  on  yesterday 
brought  before  the  United  States  commissioner  for  ex- 
amination. He  is  a  young  man,  a  little  above  the  medi- 
um height,  with  dark  hair  and  bright,  brown  eyes,  noth- 
ing in  his  appearance  indicating  the  criminal,  although 
marks  of  dissipation  were  clearly  apparen*  The  closest 
examination  did  not  bring  out  any  new  facts  in  his  case. 
He  persisted  in  maintaining  an  obstinate  silence  as  to 
the  whereabouts  of  the  plates  and  the  names  of  his  con- 
federates ;  for  it  is  certain  that  these  exist,  since  no  man 
of  the  prisoner's  age  could  have  alone  produced  such 
works  of  art  as  the  plates  undoubtedly  are.  He  denied 
again  that  he  is  Carl  Garner,  and  that  he  is  a  counter- 
feiter; but  he  would  not  state  his  true  name,  birthplace 
nor  occupation.  He  admitted,  however,  that  he  knew 
that  the  bills  found  upon  his  person  were  counterfeits, 
and  even  that  he  printed  them  himself;  but  his  sole  ob- 
ject, he  declared,  was  to  start  an  excitement  about  the 
bills  and  then  deliver  the  plates  to  the  government  for  a 
reward.  The  plates,  according  to  his  story,  came  into 
his  possession  by  chance,  had  never  been  criminally  used, 
and  are  where  they  can  never  again  be  used.  His  asso- 
ciate in  this  enterprise,  he  declared,  had  betrayed  him 
for  the  larger  and  more  certain  reward,  and  was  in  all 
probability  the  man  wanted  as  Carl  Garner.  He  offered 


"REVENGE  IS  IMMORTAL."  25 

to  get  the  plates  and  deliver  them  to  the  authorities  if 
given  his  freedom,  but  said  he  would  die  before  he  would 
betray  to  anyone  their  whereabouts  and  thereby  bring 
disgrace  and  dishonor  to  innocent  people.  He  adhered 
to  this  resolution  even  when  it  was  shown  that  the  effect 
would  be  disastrous  to  him,  while  a  confession  accom- 
panied by  a  surrender  of  the  plates  would  get  him  off 
lightly  and  even,  perhaps,  go  far  toward  substantiating 
his  story.  In  default  of  bail  in  the  sum  of  $20,000,  he 
was  bound  over  to  await  the  action  of  the  district  court." 

Again  the  hand  of  the  silent  man  turned  the  pages. 
His  eye  found  and  rested  upon  this  record: 

"The  now  noted  counterfeiter,  Carl  Garner,  was  ar- 
raigned in  the  United  States  district  court  on  yesterday 
charged  with  the  crime  of  counterfeiting.  He  appeared 
without  counsel,  and  His  Honor,  Judge  William  Brown, 
appointed  young  Mr.  Wilbur  Sterns  to  defend  him.  The 
trial  developed  nothing  additional  to  what  has  already 
been  printed.  The  prisoner  repeated  his  story  without 
material  variations,  and  it  produced  a  favorable  impres- 
sion upon  many  who  were  present.  One  of  the  treasury's 
most  skilled  detectives  gave  as  his  opinion  that  the  story 
was  true  in  every  particular,  and  that  the  whole^  difficulty 
was  the  result  of  a  youthful  indiscretion  and  an  exag- 
gerated idea  of  family  honor.  Judge  Brown,  however, 
said  that  the  reputation  of  a  country's  currency  was  too 
sacred  to  be  trifled  with;  that  a  laboring  man's  money 
represented  his  toil  and  economy,  the  future  welfare  of 
himself,  his  wife  and  his  children;  that  next  to  protect- 
ing a  man's  life,  the  highest  duty  of  a  government  was 
to  protect  the  results  of  a  man's  labor;  that  the  prisoner 
was  technically  guilty  by  his  own  admission,  even  though 
he  had  intended  no  greater  harm  than  to  force  his  gov- 
ernment to  buy  something  that,  as  a  loyal  citizen,  he 
was  in  honor  bound  to  deliver  free.  But  the  story  had 
not  been  proven  true;  indeed,  it  was  a  very  improbable 
story,  and  even  were  he  disposed  to  discharge  the  pris- 
pner  on  parole  and  his  promise  to  surrender  the  dan- 


26  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

gerous  plates,  there  was  no  law  to  justify  such  an  ac- 
tion. He  could  therefore,  he  said,  give  the  prisoner 
full  credit  for  truth  without  seeing  his  way  to  help  him; 
for  if  the  government  was  to  be  denied  the  privilege  of 
destroying  the  plates,  it  was  bound  to  do  the  next  best 
thing  possible — destroy  the  power  of  the  man  who  con- 
trolled them.  He  thereupon  called  upon  the  prisoner  to 
make  his  final  decision  in  the  matter,  intimating  that  a 
confession  and  surrender  of  the  plates  would  secure  for 
him  the  lightest  possible  sentence.  The  prisoner  then 
read  this  brief  and  affecting  statement  which  he  had  pre- 
pared: 'Circumstances  prevent  acceptance  of  the  condi- 
tions imposed  upon  me.  No  stain  has  ever,  within  my 
knowledge,  rested  upon  the  name  of  my  family.  I  will 
never  be  the  first  to  stain  it.  The  plans  that  I  had  in 
view  were  the  plans  of  an  inexperienced,  credulous  boy 
led  astray  by  dissipation  and  bad  associates,  and  con- 
templated only  selling  to  the  government  dangerous 
counterfeit  plates  that  had  not  been  used.  Of  course, 
the  whole  scheme  was  wrong,  but  the  wrong  shall  end 
in  me.  I  will  not  break  the  hearts  of  people  who  love 
me.  A  lifetime  in  prison  will  not  change  my  decision.' 

"The  court  ordered  this  statement  filed  with  the  papers 
in  the  case,  and  thereupon  sentenced  the  prisoner  to 
twenty  years  in  the  penitentiary,  upon  three  counts  in 
the  indictment,  the  full  limit  of  the  law.  So  ends  a  very 
remarkable  case.  The  frank  manliness  of  the  prisoner 
produced  a  profound  impression  and  many  exclamations 
of  sympathy  and  pity  followed  him  as  he  was  led  away. 
Judge  Brown  said  afterwards  that  he  had  no  choice  left 
but  to  proceed  as  he  had,  but  that  never  in  all  his  ex- 
perience had  he  been  more  inclined  to  believe  in  the 
sincerity  of  a  statement  that  his  judgment  told  him  was 
untrue.  He  predicts  that  a  confession  will  yet  follow." 

The  reader  searched  every  line  of  the  paper  for  addi- 
tional mention  of  the  case,  and  found  this  in  the  editorial 
columns : 

"Dispatches  of  to-day  bring  us  particulars  of  the  trial 


"REVENGE  IS  IMMORTAL."  2? 

and  conviction  of  a  young  man  arrested  in  New  York  as 
Carl  Garner  for  counterfeiting.  The  remarkable  features 
of  the  case  are  the  prisoner's  persistent  denial  of  his 
identity  and  his  statement  that  his  innocence  can  only 
be  proven  by  revelations  that  will  bring  distress  and  dis- 
honor upon  innocent  people.  He  insisted  that  his  embar- 
rassment was  due  to  dissipation  and  bad  associates,  and 
declared  his  willingness  to  expiate  his  offense  by  sacri- 
ficing his  life  and  liberty. 

"Twenty  years  was  the  sentence  imposed  upon  him. 
Twenty  years!  Think  of  this,  our  young  reader,  when 
you  are  first  tempted  to  wander  from  the  parental  roof 
at  night,  to  take  your  first  glass  of  beer,  or  heed  the 
appeals  of  vice  in  any  form!  Here  is  a  man  just  of  age, 
born,  it  is  likely,  in  good  circumstances,  reared  by  lov- 
ing parents  and  given  every  advantage  that  a  Christian 
community  can  furnish,  gone  from  all  these  to  a  living 
tomb! 

"Twenty  years!  When  he  conies  forth,  confinement 
will  have  made  him  an  old  man.  Youth  will  have  been 
long  since  dead  in  his  heart.  Parents  perhaps, — twenty 
years  is  a  long  time, — will  have  grown  sick  and  weary 
of  waiting  and  have  passed  away  heartbroken.  If  he  is 
heir  to  property,  others  will  have  succeeded  to  it.  If  he 
had  a  child  of  his  own  it  will  have  grown  to  manhood 
or  womanhood  and  will  know  him  not.  Indeed,  how 
can  he,  with  the  smell  of  the  convict  upon  his  garments, 
claim  kinship,  sympathy,  friendship  with  any  of  those 
who  believed  him  at  least  honorably  dead? 

"And  if  he  has  a  wife,  she  too  will  be  nothing  to  him. 
If  so  constituted  that  she  cannot  survive  a  prolonged 
grief  and  the  uncertainty  of  his  fate,  she  too  may  per- 
ish; but  as  he  lies  at  night  in  his  lonely  cell  there  is  a 
worse  thought  than  this, — to  us  the  most  terrible  that 
could  come  to  a  convict  so  situated;  he  must  see  that 
wife  waiting  and  watching  and  losing  faith,  her  love 
growing  cold ;  and  distrust  followed  by  hatred  and  con- 
tempt, taking  its  place,  until  some  day  she  casts  it  all 


28  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

out  and,  in  her  loneliness,  loving  less  madly  than  she 
did  at  first,  turn  at  last  for  comfort  to  a  nobler  man." 

The  reader,  who  had  unconsciously  begun  to  pro- 
nounce aloud  the  lines  of  this  word  picture,  his  voice 
trembling  with  repressed  excitement,  paused  and  strug- 
gled up  to  his  knees.  Behind  him  in  the  doorway  of  the 
little  room  the  voodoo  was  crouching,  having  crawled 
from  her  couch,  her  eyes  blazing  with  passion.  The  man 
had  paused  above  the  page  that  still  held  his  gaze  fas- 
cinated by  the  convict's  doom  foretold  thereon.  Again 
he  began:  "In  his  heart  he  cannot  blame  her;  but  he 
must  realize  that  when  the  twenty  years  end,  he  will  issue 
from  prison  with  no  friend  alive  and  no  object  in  life!" 
The  volume  closed  with  a  sharp  crash.  Chilon  was  on 
his  feet  now,  his  face  transformed.  A  sound  attracted 
his  attention — or  was  it  the  concentration  of  her  fixed 
gaze?  He  turned  and  looked  into  the  voodoo's  face. 

"Ah,"  he-  cried,  "the  man  who  wrote  that  had  never 
been  a  felon!  He  did  not  know!  Love  may  perish,  but 
revenge  is  immortal!"  He  paused  abruptly.  The  wom- 
an's lids  closed  gently  over  her  pale  eyes  and  a  strange 
smile  overspread  her  wrinkled  countenance.  Slowly, 
after  the  manner  of  some  great  reptile,  she  drew  back 
into  the  darkness. 


THE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT.  29 

CHAPTER    VII. 
THE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Chilon  spent  the  next  night  in  the  swamp.  The  little 
bayou  had  an  almost  imperceptible  current  and  sitting 
in  his  boat,  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  he  let  it  drift  at 
will.  The  night  was  cloudy  and  intensely  dark,  for  the 
water-way  led  under  the  spreading  branches  of  great 
oaks  and  beeches  and  canopies  of  tangled  vines.  No 
sound  came  to  him  except  that  strange  sweet  murmur 
that  belongs  to  all  great  swamps,  which  is  like  unto 
nothing  in  nature  unless  it  be  the  sad  voice  in  the  hu- 
man heart  that  physicians  know.  It  may  have  been  this 
note  that  insensibly  attracted  him  into  the  gloom  rather 
than  the  open  fields;  and  there  it  was  that  he  first  be- 
trayed his  presence  to  any  one  of  the  neighborhood. 

His  mind  was  busy  with  the  memories  that  had  been 
so  vividly  flashed  upon  it  by  the  record,  and  uncon- 
scious of  his  surroundings  the  little  craft  passed  silently 
into  an  open  space  and  emerged  upon  the  starless  water ; 
but  noiseless  though  it  was,  two  men,  negroes,  crouch- 
ing over  their  fishing  lines  by  a  bed  of  coals,  where 
blazed  a  lightwood  torch,  saw  him  and  sprung  to  their 
feet.  The  light  and  their  exclamations  drew  his  atten- 
tion, but  too  late  to  avoid  detection.  One  of  the  men 
suddenly  swung  the  torch  above  his  head,  and  leaning 
forward,  said  loudly:  "Who  dat?"  Chilon  made  no  mo- 
tion, and  the  scene  then  presented  to  these  representa- 
tives of  a  most  superstitious  people  was  a  boat,  white  in 
the  glow  of  the  torch,  holding  a  wild,  haggard,  bare- 
headed and  half-clad  man.  Responsive  to  the  moving 
torch,  fantastic  shadows  leaped  among  the  trees,  and 
somewhere  an  owl  uttered  his  inquiring  note.  With  loud 
cries  the  men,  dropping  their  brands,  rushed  back  into 
the  night,  the  sound  of  breaking  bush  and  rotten  wood 
indicating  for  some  moments  their  continued  flight.  The 


30  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

man  in  the  boat  weighed  the  circumstance  and  soon  per- 
ceived its  value.  To  have  it  rumored  that  a  haunt  was 
abroad  in  the  swamps  would  render  it  a  safer  refuge. 
He  lifted  his  voice  and  sent  a  prolonged  shriek  after  the 
fleeing  negroes,  a  cry  weird  and  wild  that  set  a  thousand 
echoes  afloat.  Chilon  himself  started  as  he  heard  it  com- 
ing back  to  him  from  every  side,  doubled  and  distorted 
until  the  night  was  hideous  with  its  unearthly  discord. 
As  it  died  away  he  bowed  his  head  into  his  hands  and 
shuddered.  Unconsciously  he  had  given  expression  to 
the  discord  within  him  born  of  his  grief  and  passionate 
rebellion.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  his  own 
voice  unrestrained  in  all  those  years,  and  the  echoes 
that  laughed  back  at  him  were  from  the  nights  made 
hideous  by  vain  regrets  behind  prison  bars.  He  had  cried 
aloud  as  he  had  wished  to  cry  a  thousand  times  when  he 
felt  those  bars  across  his  face,  cold  iron  at  first,  and  then 
hot,  searing  his  very  heart.  But  not  a  cry  had  escaped 
him.  There  was  an  iron  will  within  that  upheld  him; 
for  was  not  his  chance  to  come  some  day  when  a  record 
for  good  behavior  had  been  made? 

The  boat  in  silence  and  loneliness  drifted  on.  Chilon 
had  thrown  himself  face  down  within  it,  and  for  the  time 
yielded  himself  to  the  bitterness  of  his  fate.  Hours  must 
have  passed  when  he  aroused  himself  to  find  the  swift 
river  hurrying  him  seaward.  For  a  moment  the  impulse 
to  let  the  stream  have  its  will,  to  pass  out  into  the  dis- 
tant sea  and  find  a  harbor  at  last  on  some  foreign 
shore,  almost  overcame  him ;  but  he  put  aside  the  temp- 
tation resolutely,  and  turning  his  back  upon  the  swarm- 
ing demons  that  had  tormented  him,  bent  himself  to  the 
task  of  guiding  his  craft  back  into  the  haven  of  the 
swamp.  Day  was  breaking  when  he  entered  the  empty 
cabin.  He  threw  himself  upon  his  pallet  and  fell  asleep; 
and  as  he  slept  the  woman  came  again  and  bent  over  his 
wearied  frame  chanting  her  weird  songs.  Her  eyes  grew 
humid  at  times  with  tenderness;  at  times  they  flashed 
forth  steely  gleams  of  light. 


THE  WOUND  THAT  WOULD  NOT  HEAL.        3! 

CHAPTER    VIII. 
THE  WOUND  THAT    WOULD  NOT  HEAL. 

In  her  queer  way,  the  African  woman  was  physician, 
magician,  alchemist  and  pharmacist.  She  knew  every 
shrub  and  bulb  of  the  country,  and  their  effects  upon  the 
nerves,  the  organs  and  the  muscles  of  the  human  sys- 
tem. She  knew  how  to  fill  the  mind  with  fancies  and 
bend  the  imagination  to  her  ends.  She  came  of  a  race 
that  from  the  days  of  Pharaoh  recognized  the  power  of 
the  mind  over  matter;  for  faith  cure  is  older  than  the 
pyramids.  Long  habit  had  linked  her  incantations  to  her 
task  and  become  a  part  of  her  trade,  for  minds  can  steep 
themselves  in  deception  until  they  are  themselves  de- 
ceived. 

There  were  other  agencies  than  human  that  combined 
in  her  service  if  the  undertones  of  the  African  society 
could  be  trusted,  for  no  living  thing  of  all  God's  beauti- 
ful world  would  for  long  make  its  home  with  her.  If  she 
took  to  the  cabin  a  little  kitten,  it  grew  into  shy  cathood 
and  accepted  a  grim  mate  from  the  canebrakes  where 
she  went  to  hunt  young  rabbits,  and  when  motherhood 
came,  caught  the  contagion  of  their  wildness  and  made 
her  a  lair  in  the  trunk  of  some  fallen  tree.  Her  turkeys 
nested  wild  and  came  no  more  except  in  dead  of  winter 
to  crane  their  necks  from  a  distant  covert  and  gaze,  with 
half  memories,  at  dawn,  upon  the  cabin  lights.  Her 
ducks,  too,  mated  with  the  Mallards  or  the  Carolinas,  and 
drifted  out  in  sunny  days  upon  the  river.  Birds  she  had 
years  ago,  but  they  were  noteless  and  died  with  heads 
under  their  wings. 

Be  this  as  it  might,  the  visible  agencies  of  her  calling 
were  plentiful.  Out  from  among  the  rafters  and  corners 
her  ingredients  came  as  needed.  No  man  could  read  her 
formulas;  they  were  wordless,  but  she  knew  them  all. 
The  mother,  in  the  singular  division  of  her  people's  social 


32  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

organization,  was  the  sole  university  of  the  daughter, 
and  nature  was  the  one  great  wholesale  supply  house. 
There  were  the  queer  little  bottles,  with  their  infusions 
and  decoctions,  clear  liquids  and  liquids  deepening  into 
the  roots  and  twigs,  whose  essential  elements  they  con- 
tained. And  there  were  the  spiders  floating  in  an  amber 
fluid,  five  drops  of  which  would  lessen  the  strength  of 
the  fiercest  pulse,  the  lizard  coiled  in  oil  that  made  sup- 
ple the  rheumatic  joints  of  age;  and  sprainwort  for 
sprains.  Tanzy,  too,  was  there,  and  sage  and  mint  and 
mullein,  bark  of  the  red  oak  for  its  tannic  acid,  hoarhound 
for  coughs,  and  pine  splinters  for  turpentine.  And  there 
were  milkweed  to  cure  fits,  and  mole  claws  to  hang  about 
the  necks  of  teething  babes. 

These  and  a  hundred  other  nostrums  she  had  in  store, 
many  long  worthless.  For  times  had  changed;  the  new 
race  was  in  reach  of  ambitious  doctors  and  the  old  system 
was  passing  out  of  fashion.  Even  at  this  time  her  help 
was  sought  chiefly  by  women  in  labor,  who  still  believed 
in  the  potency  of  a  "hand  that  had  smothered  a  mole," 
and  by  those  who  wished  the  protection  of  "conjure 
bags,"  the  little  amulets  once  so  popular.  The  old  prac- 
titioner had  nearly  reached  her  end.  The  time  would 
soon  come  when  the  last  and  greatest  of  the  voodoos 
would  pass  away. 

But  these  herbs  hanging  from  her  rafters  and  clustered 
about  the  recesses  of  the  cabin  gave  it  an  uncanny  ap- 
pearance to  eyes  that  viewed  them  from  a  distance,  and 
thus  strengthened  its  defenses. 

This  day  she  labored  with  new  vigor  as  she  sang; 
and  on  her  table  were  roots  and  culms  and  bulbs  of 
nameless  plants  that  grow  in  southern  swamps.  Some 
thought  was  with  her  as  she  labored,  some  fancy  or 
memory.  A  skilled  reader  of  the  human  face  would  not 
have  selected  love  as  the  quickening  power  behind  the 
singular  revival  of  vital  forces  that  supplied  her  aged 
limbs  with  energy.  So  thought  Chilon,  when,  waking 
from  a  troubled  sleep,  he  lay  with  aching  joints  and 


THE  WOUND  THAT  WOULD  NOT  HEAL.        33 

silently  watched  her  toil.  The  look  upon  her  face  was 
the  same  it  wore  the  previous  night  when  her  lids  sank 
over  the  pale  eyes  and  she  drew  back  into  the  shadow. 
It  was  a  flash  from  the  savagery  that  lurked  in  the 
shadows  of  her  soul,  a  savagery  that  would  endure  for 
an  eternity  if  necessary  to  avenge  a  wrong.  He  read  it 
by  the  light  of  the  inward  flame  that  fired  his  own  lag- 
ging soul  to  action. 

The  long  day  ended,  Chilon  arose  and  partook  of  the 
simple  food  set  before  him.  When  the  shadows  deep- 
ened he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  woman's  shoulder  and 
said  : 

"Someone  has  wronged  you.  Mammy!  Who  is  it?" 
She  had  resumed  her  low  chair  and  her  usual  crouching 
attitude.  She  looked  upon  him  with  an  increasing  intel- 
ligence as  her  mind  struggled  back  out  of  its  vapors. 
"Tell  Chilon,"  he  continued,  "he  will  find  him  some  day. 
Who  is  the  man?" 

Again  the  strange  wild  eyes  blazed  with  their  steely 
light. 

"The  man  you  wait  for."  She  spoke  the  words  gently, 
but  confidently. 

"No,"  he  replied,  after  a  moment's  thought;  "he 
could  not  have  harmed  you."  She  did  not  answer  him 
for  so  long  that  he  imagined  the  curtain  had  fallen  across 
her  mind  again.  Her  next  action  revealed  his  mistake. 
Her  claw-like  fingers  slowly  undid  the  collar  of  her  dress 
and  drew  aside  the  covering  until  the  shoulder  was  ex- 
posed and  a  wound  four  or  five  inches  long,  such  a 
wound  as  the  last  foot  of  a  rawhide  in  the  hand  of  an 
angry  man  would  produce  upon  a  tender  skin.  He  start- 
ed, amazed  and  distressed,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  spot. 
It  was  an  old  cut,  angry  and  festering  still. 

"Hit's  de  only  lick  Silvy  ever  got,"  she  said,  quietly, 
"an'  hit  won't  heal  while  he  lives!  Hit  can  wait!"  She 
fell  into  silence  again. 

Chilon  went  forth  at  midnight  carrying  the  bound 
papers. 

3 


34  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER    IX. 
THE  MIDNIGHT  MEETING. 

Ravenswood,  the  home  of  the  Marbeaus,  was  one  of 
the  great  landed  estates  for  which  the  old  south  was 
noted,  but  it  differed  from  the  majority  in  possessing 
every  adjunct  that  wealth  and  cultivated  taste  could  sup- 
ply. The  house,  originally  colonial  in  its  general  ap- 
pearance, reflected  the  moods  of  successive  owners  in 
the  changes  and  additions,  presenting  in  the  growth  of 
its  better  days  an  aspect  somewhat  divided  between  the 
English  country  residence  and  the  French  chateau  of  a 
hundred  years  ago.  The  interior  furnishings  were  an- 
tique, many  of  them  having  been  picked  up  abroad  before 
the  war.  The  decorations  were  few  and  the  dominant 
note  was  simplicity.  That  it  was  a  house  that  had  been 
"lived  in,"  impressed  every  visitor.  Its  dumb  walls 
seemed  to  have  absorbed  and  learned  to  reflect  something 
of  the  easy  hospitality  of  the  gracious  men  and  women 
who  reigned  there  in  the  good  old  days,  and  every  article 
of  furniture  exhibited  a  dignified  friendliness. 

It  was  a  large  house  of  many  apartments,  the  majority 
of  them  closed  and  out  of  use.  Its  ball  room  was  above, 
and  was  the  counterpart  of  the  state  dining  room  that 
extended  toward  the  rear.  Both  had  long  been  aban- 
doned, the  former  to  become  the  depository  of  a  vast 
aggregation  of  things  which,  too  sacred  for  exile,  must 
perforce  be  given  honorable  retirement.;  the  latter  in 
favor  of  a  smaller  room  better  suited  to  the  family  needs. 
Gayety  had  long  since  fled  from  Ravenswood. 

The  old  house  looked  over  and  down  from  the  pleateau 
upon  which  it  stood  into  a  deep  valley  where  slept  a 
placid  lake  whose  heart  beat  through  the  succeeding 
hours  of  day  and  night  in  a  little  hydraulic  machine  that 
distributed  water  where  needed,  the  slow  monotonous 
rhythm  well  in  keeping  with  the  brooding  quiet  of  the 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MEETING.  35 

residence.  Near  by  was  a  water  mill,  generally  still,  and 
at  the  water's  edge  tall  grasses  bent  to  cool  their  shadows 
in  pellucid  depths.  Around  the  lake  the  wooded  lands 
came  gently  down  and  girdled  the  inverted  castles  of  the 
sky  with  wreaths  of  color  as  the  seasons  changed. 

With  the  death  of  slavery  began  the  passing  of  the 
many  servants  that  kept  up  Ravenswood.  Gradually  the 
house  shrunk  into  itself  a  little,  the  great  flower  gardens 
lost  their  well  kept  aspect  and  life  settled  down  into  a 
smaller  suite  of  rooms  as  indicated  by  the  many  drawn 
blinds.  For  following  the  political  had  come  family 
changes  equally  as  radical. 

Into  this  scene  came  Chilon  the  second  night,  his  feet 
tracing  out  the  old  and  well  known  environments  and 
bringing  him  at  length  before  the  darkened  residence. 
He  had  seen  from  the  distance  light  in  an  upper  room. 
Who  was  the  occupant?  No  servant  ever  slept  within 
the  main  building.  Who  was  his  uncle's  guest?  Wheth- 
er it  had  been  extinguished  or  shut  in  by  heavy  damask 
curtains  he  could  not  decide.  It  was  no  longer  visible. 

The  discovery  made  caution  imperative.  Whoever 
dwelt  there  must  be  avoided;  and  so  when,  having  en- 
tered his  room  again,  he  passed  on  through  the  hallway 
and  down  to  the  library,  he  might  have  been,  so  far  as 
the  prying  eyes  of  a  visitor  could  decide,  only  the  ghost 
of  some  dead  Marbeau  come  back  to  visit  the  scenes  of 
his  youth. 

But  in  the  library  he  found  everything  as  he  had  left 
it,  the  odor  of  his  uncle's  pipe  being  still  strong  upon 
the  air.  Relighting  the  lamp  he  ran  his  eyes  over  the 
open  papers  and  saw  the  usual  chronicle  of  daily  events, 
all  strange,  and  possessing  for  him  no  interest.  Wearily 
putting  them  aside  he  drew  from  the  lower  shelves  an- 
other file  of  the  old  papers.  The  thought  came  to  him 
that  there  was  little  danger  in  reading  there;  and  he 
had  found  his  burden  hard  to  carry  over  the  difficult 
route  that  fate  compelled  him  to  accept.  He  adopted  the 


36  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

suggestion  and  began  again  to  search  the  records,  the 
local  news  being  still  the  line  of  interest.  One  by  one 
old  acquaintances  seemed  to  rise  to  view  and  pass  away, 
some  to  foreign  lands,  some  to  their  burial.  There  were 
business  changes  of  familiar  firms,  births,  marriages  and 
the  happenings  of  the  social  world, — the  dances,  recep- 
tions, excursions  and  functions  of  even  less  importance 
and  of  no  interest  except  for  the  names  they  contained. 
At  length  his  finger  rested  upon  an  item  and  a  low  cry 
escaped  his  lips.  The  item  was  in  the  department  de- 
voted to  reprints  from  other  journals  and  was  very  brief. 
It  merely  related  that  one  of  the  accomplices  of  the  men 
engaged  in  the  great  Kansas  train  robbery  had  been  ar- 
rested and  had  confessed.  Among  the  names  of  the 
guilty  as  given  by  this  man  was  "Chilon  Marbeau."  He 
sat  long  in  profound  thought.  Only  one  man  in  the 
world  would  have  been  apt  to  wear  his  name.  Had  he 
been  convicted?  Was  he  now  in  prison?  Henceforth 
there  must  be  a  new  direction  of  his  search.  But  a 
greater  sensation  awaited  him ;  this  time  he  found  in  the 
society  column  the  simple  announcement:  "Miss  Lena 
Marbeau,  of  Ravenswood,  is  visiting  her  aunt,  in  this 
city!"  "Miss"  Lena  Marbeau.  That  one  word  possessed 
for  him  a  deep  significance.  "They  have  persuaded  her 
to  this,"  he  said.  "There  has  been  no  revelation.  She  has 
simply  taken  up  again  her  maiden  name  and  waits, — 
waits  for  me.  The  family  have  taken  her  back !  'Chilon 
is  not  dead,'  that  is  what  she  tells  herself  and  she  keeps 
her  faith,  she  waits  for  me.  I  will  return,  I  will  return," 
he  said,  brokenly,  "some  day,  to  vindicate  that  faith,  and 
make  her  happy."  He  could  read  no  more  that  night. 
He  closed  the  book  softly  and  bent  his  face  above  it. 
"Yes,  dear  God,"  he  said,  "dear  God,  I  will  return!  I 
will  free  my  name  of  infamy  and  make  her  happy!" 

As  thus  he  sat,  a  sound  came  faintly  to  his  ear  that 
instantly  aroused  him  to  a  sense  of  his  situation.  It  was 
the  sound  of  a  door  closing;  and  then  came  footfalls 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MEETING.  37 

upon  the  stairs.  He  looked  around  him,  grown  cool  now 
that  actual  danger  threatened.  The  broad,  dark  under- 
recess  of  the  library  decided  him.  In  a  moment  he  had 
crept  inside  and  drawn  together  the  doors.  Pushing 
aside  the  green  baize  that  covered  the  glass  he  had  but 
a  moment  to  wait.  A  woman  in  her  dressing  gown 
stood  in  the  doorway,  candle  in  hand,  looking  about  her 
in  surprise.  There  was  no  hesitation  in  the  decision  of 
his  heart.  It  sent  the  blood  in  one  great  wave  to  his 
head,  where  it  stood  still  so  long  that  he  almost  suc- 
cumbed. Then  it  started  off  in  fierce  excitement,  for 
this  woman,  gazing  about  her  and  evidently  puzzled  to 
find  the  library  lamp  burning,  was,  when  last  he  beheld 
her,  Lena  Marbeau,  his  wife. 

The  hidden  man  gazed  upon  the  face  illumined  by  two 
lights  with  indescribable  emotion.  There  had  been  few 
changes;  the  girlishness  had  given  place  to  a  sweeter 
womanliness,  and  it  was  whiter;  that  was  all.  The 
smooth  contour  was  there,  the  same  liquid,  brown  eyes 
that  pleaded  so  eloquently  for  love  and  tenderness,  the 
same  mass  of  black-brown  hair  tumbling  down  over 
neck  and  shoulders.  All  came  back  to  him  like  a  dream 
from  the  years  wasted  and  flown  forever.  He  longed  to 
leap  forth  and  throw  himself  into  her  arms;  to  tell  her 
of  his  deathless  love  and  faith  and  belief,  to  take  her  to 
his  heart  and  bring  back  again  out  of  the  sadness  that 
had  engulfed  it,  her  beautiful  smile.  His  hand  was 
against  the  little  door;  he  drew  it  back  with  sudden,  al- 
most frantic  haste. 

"God,  in  heaven!"  he  whispered,  "save  me!  What  am 
I?  She  would  flee  from  such  as  I, — she  would  die  of 
horror!"  He  dashed  the  mists  from  his  eyes  and,  fas- 
cinated, sought  her  face.  She  crossed  the  room,  took 
from  the  sofa  a  little  traveling  bag  and  extinguished  the 
lamp.  He  heard  her  footsteps  in  the  hall,  on  the  stair 
and  above;  then,  the  opening  and  closing  of  a  door. 
The  twilight  of  the  room  had  faded  into  darkness;  all 


38  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

was  still  again.  Then  the  little  door  against  which  his 
hand  rested  was  flung  wide  open.  He  plunged  out  into 
the  darkness  and  fell  upon  his  face  at  the  place  where 
she  had  stood,  crying  out  her  name,  once,  in  agony,  and 
pressing  his  lips  again  and  again  to  the  threshold. 

As  he  lay  there  a  door  upstairs  was  opened  and  a  few 
moments  later  closed,  as  if  some  one  had  stood  to  listen. 


"I  WAS  A  CONVICT."  39 

CHAPTER    X. 

"I  WAS  A  CONVICT." 

When  Chilon  arose  weak  and  exhausted  the  darkened 
house  was  silent.  In  the  reaction  of  the  moment  every- 
thing he  had  resolved  to  do  was  abandoned.  He  had 
seen  her!  Could  he  go  away  without  speaking  to  her, 
go  forth  perhaps  forever,  and  she  so  near?  The  woman 
was  his  wife;  he  would  go  to  her  and  tell  her  all.  She 
would  forgive  him,  and  her  courage  would  sustain  him 
in*  the  struggle  to  come.  Would  she  forgive — did  she 
still  love  him?  The  mental  questions  filled  him  with  an 
almost  insane  fear,  born  of  jealousy.  He  felt  then  that 
if  the  morning  broke  upon  him  with  his  questions  un- 
answered he  was  lost.  He  had  wavered  and  the  tumult 
within  swept  away  all  old  plans.  If  he  died  for  it  on  the 
morrow,  he  would  see  her. 

The  mind  under  pressure  works  quickly.  Not  in  that 
garb,  not  with  that  unkempt  beard  and  those  soiled  hands 
would  he  face  the  woman  who  was  literally  his  world  now. 
There  was  no  necessity  for  it.  In  that  house  he  was  at 
home.  Lighting  the  lamp  he  made  his  way  to  his  uncle's 
dressing  room,  where  were  all  the  requisites  for  a  man's 
toilet.  With  noiseless  haste,  but  neglecting  nothing,  he 
began  the  task  of  restoring  the  old  appearance  of  Chilon 
Marbeau  as  nearly  as  might  be.  The  methodical  habits 
of  Colonel  Marbeau  were  well-known  to  him.  He  could 
have  placed  his  hand  in  the  dark  upon  most  of  the  articles 
he  needed.  With  the  lamp  before  him,  the  task  was 
easy.  Within  the  hour  he  stood  before  the  glass,  dressed 
as  for  breakfast,  his  beard  had  gone  and,  for  the  first  time 
in  many  a  year,  in  appearance  a  gentleman.  His  efforts 
had  been  to  make  himself  as  nearly  as  possible  the  wild 
boy  that  left  her  so  long  ago,  and  he  knew  that  except 
for  the  settled  look  of  sadness  and  the  irrevocable  record 
of  a  mental  agony,  his  face  had  changed  but  little,  A 


40  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

crisis,  the  real  crisis  of  his  life,  was  at  hand,  and  now  that 
it  must  be  encountered  the  thought  calmed  him.  There 
must  be  no  mistake;  no  tracks  must  be  left.  He  forced 
himself  to  return  to  its  exact  place  every  article  used  and 
to  remove  all  traces  of  his  occupancy  from  the  dressing 
room.  His  discarded  clothing  he  carried  to  the  closet 
of  the  room  formerly  his  own.  That  which  he  had  ap- 
propriated would  in  all  likelihood  never  be  missed.  Then 
he  went  and  stood  silent  before  the  door  of  Lena's  room, 
the  light  issuing  above  it  illumining  the  hall  just  enough 
to  show  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his  face.  The  critical  mo- 
ment had  arrived  and  the  moment  of  peril.  His  life  would 
date  from  the  next  hour. 

It  was  an  index  to  the  changes  which  had  made  a  man 
of  a  wild,  reckless  and  somewhat  selfish  nature,  that  his 
first  thought  when  he  stood  with  hand  upon  the  knob 
was  for  the  woman  within.  How  could  he  avoid  for  her 
the  shock  of  a  sudden  appearance.  It  was  also  an  index 
to  the  implicit  faith  he  still  felt  that  never  for  a  moment 
did  it  occur  to  him  that  any  other  than  the  woman  he 
loved  was  within.  He  decided  quickly.  Securing  a  chair 
he  stood  upon  it  and  looked  down  through  the  transom ; 
she  was  writing  by  the  little  table,  her  back  to  him, 
dressed  as  he  had  seen  her  last.  The  bed  had  been  occu- 
pied and  forsaken,  possibly  from  sleeplessness,  and  writ- 
ing was  an  afterthought.  He  descended,  turned  the  knob 
slowly  and  steadily.  The  door  opened  without  noise, 
and  stepping  within  he  said,  in  a  low,  natural  voice,  as 
if  but  a  day  had  passed  since  last  he  issued  there: 

"Lena,  do  not  be  frightened;  it  is  I,  Chilon!"  The 
pen  slipped  from  her  fingers,  and  these,  closing  convul- 
sively, flew  to  her  temples.  A  sound  escaped  her,  a  mut- 
tered prayer,  perhaps,  that  did  not  open  her  drawn  lips. 
The  next  moment  he  was  beside  her  upon  his  knees,  one 
arm  about  her  waist,  his  face  buried  in  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  while  his  form  shook  with  such  an  outburst 
of  passionate  emotion  as  rendered  speech  impossible. 
She  drew  her  hands  away,  and  still  holding  them  aloof, 


"I  WAS  A  CONVICT."  41 

shrank  back  fearfully  as  she  gazed  downward.  His  name 
escaped  her  lips  in  a  whisper  that  would  not  have  been 
audible  at  the  door.  It  carried  with  it  something  so 
deep,  so  strange  and  unexpected,  something  so  like  a 
momentary  horror,  that  the  man  ceased  at  length  to 
shudder,  and,  as  though  listening  for  some  voice  in  the 
far-away  night,  lifted  his  head.  Slowly,  fearfully,  he 
turned  his  face  to  hers.  Her  hands  were  still  drawn 
back  from  touch  of  him,  her  eyes  were  distended  and  the 
pallor  of  death  covered  her  face.  His  own  grew  pale 
instantly.  Slowly  he  withdrew  his  arm  and  shrank  back 
as  from  some  deadly  danger.  In  the  chill  silence  that 
followed  the  pulse  of  the  little  water  engine  sounded  like 
clock  ticks  in  a  deserted  hall. 

"Too  late."  He  spoke  the  words  scarcely  aloud.  It 
was  an  explanation  to  himself,  to  the  self  that  he  felt 
was  incapable  of  thought.  He  tried  to  realize  his  situa- 
tion. He  could  not.  He  had  attempted  something  and 
had  failed.  Dazed  and  uncertain,  he  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  table  and  sought  to  rise,  but  strength  had  gone 
from  his  muscles.  The  dumb  agony  in  his  eyes  as  they 
fell  beneath  her  frantic  gaze  filled  her  own  with  sudden 
tears.  Something  terrible  must  have  happened  to  affect 
Lena  so.  The  next  moment  he  remembered  all.  She 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  face  and  gave  way  to  a  pas- 
sionate weeping,  and  as  if  doubting  her  senses  she  from 
time  to  time  drew  them  aside  and  turned  to  him  her  agon- 
ized face,  shutting  out  the  vision  again  and  again.  The 
presence  of  this  almost  hysterical  outburst  hushed  him 
and  filled  him  for  the  moment  with  fear  for  her  mind.  At 
length,  unable  longer  to  endure  it,  he  arose,  placed  his 
hand  upon  her  head  with  infinite  tenderness,  stroking 
gently  her  soft  brown  hair. 

"Will  you  not  speak  to  me,  Lena?"  The  voice,  the 
tones  increased  her  emotion.  She  sprung  to  her  feet 
and  walked  the  room,  wringing  her  hands  and  regarding 
him  with  a  face  so  grief-stricken,  so  despairing,  that  he 
could  find  no  words  to  speak  again.  Overcome  at  length, 


42  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  her  sobs  filling  the  room. 

Chilon.  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts.  Minutes  passed, 
and  then  her  sobbing  ceased.  He  heard  her  rise  slowly 
and  come  to  him,  and  he  felt  upon  his  own  head  the 
doubting,  hesitating  touch  of  her  hand.  It  was  not  pity 
that  his  breaking  heart  cried  out  for;  it  was  love;  and  love 
he  felt  was  now  for  some  reason  impossible.  Why,  he 
could  not  understand;  but  something  had  happened.  He 
took  her  hand  down,  held  it  a  moment  in  his  and  released 
it,  and  presently,  with  the  last  effort  of  his  pride,  he  stood 
up ;  but  something  in  her  white  face  unnerved  him  again 
and  banished  pride.  With  a  loud  sob  he  threw  his  arms 
about  her. 

"Lena,  my  wife!"  he  cried,  "my  own,  my  own!"  She 
did  not  struggle,  but  lay  shuddering  upon  his  breast,  his 
hand  stroking  her  brown  hair,  while  his  low  voice  pleaded 
with  her  for  love  and  tenderness.  The  face  she  lifted  to 
him  at  last  was  full  of  anguish  and  despair. 

"Go,"  she  said,  weakly,  "you  must  leave  the  room!" 

"Your  room — my  wife's  room?"  She  gave  way  again 
to  grief  and  weeping. 

"Leave  me;  leave  me!" 

"Never!"  he  said,  passionately,  "never  until  I  know 
from  your  lips  that  you  no  longer  love  Chilon!  Tell 
me  that  and  I  will  go,  Lena,  never  to  look  upon  your 
face  again,  as  God  is  my  judge!"  She  did  not  reply. 
"Will  you  say  that  you  do  not?"  he  said,  gently;  but  no 
sound  except  her  sobs  came  back.  "You  do  love  me, 
then?"  he  added,  "do  you  not?  Absence,  time  and  neg- 
lect, as  it  seems  to  you,  have  not  destroyed  the  love  you 
once  felt  for  me!"  She  would  not  reply.  His  eager 
eyes  caught  sight  of  a  little  chain  of  gold  upon  her  neck. 
With  sudden  recognition  he  seized  it  and  drew  from  her 
bosom  a  tiny  medallion.  He  pressed  his  lips  to  the  face 
upon  it  and  lifted  his  eyes  toward  heaven.  "I  thank  you, 
my  Father!"  he  said,  his  face  radiant.  "Chilon  lives 
again!"  He  felt  the  weight  upon  his  arm  increase. 


"I  WAS  A  CONVICT."  43 

Alarmed,  he  drew  her  to  the  bed  and  stretched  her  upon 
it.    She  was  unconscious. 

But  as  he  hurriedly  searched  for  restoratives  she  recov- 
ered and  came  to  him  frantically. 

"'Go  at  once;  do  not  wait  a  moment.  Go,  Chilon,  I 
implore!"  An  unfinished  letter  lay  upon  the  table.  She 
sprung  to  it  and  crushed  the  sheets  in  her  hand,  her  eyes 
turned  in  terror  upon  him.  The  look  of  unutterable 
despair  he  cast  upon  her  banished  for  the  moment  her 
terror.  He  was  wavering  before  her  and  ready  to  fall. 
His  voice  was  faintly  audible  when  he  spoke  the  words 
fearfully : 

"To  whom  was  it?" 

"Ah!"  she  gasped,  eagerly,  "to  your  sister!  See,  it 
begins  'Dear  Celeste.' " 

"Lena!"  He  came  to  her  again  and  took  her  hand, 
"you  bid  me  go,  and  I  will,  but  let  us  understand  each 
other.  It  may  be  our  last  meeting.  Look!"  He  lifted 
the  medallion  she  wore,  and  thrusting  his  hand  into  his 
bosom,  drew  a  duplicate  of  it  to  view  and  placed  them  side 
by  side.  "They  tell  the  same  story.  Why  should  you 
wish  me  to  go?"  Again  her  face  was  hidden  by  her 
hands. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  new  wonder,  for  the  first 
time  suspecting  the  truth. 

"Do  you  not  know — Chilon!  Chilon! — I  could  not 
stand  disgrace!"  He  misunderstood. 

"You  have  heard  it,  then?"  he  said,  despairingly;  "they 
have  told  you  that  I  was  a  convict?" 

"They  told  me,  yes,  but  I  did  not  know  they  lied.  I 
swear  to  you  upon  my  knees,  Chilon,  I  did  not  know! 
They  took  advantage  of  my  youth  to  deceive  me.  They 
brought  me  proof  that  you,  my  husband,  were  a  train 
robber,  a  convicted  robber.  I  would  not  believe  it  until 
then.  I  cared  for  nothing  afterwards;  I  gave  up.  When 
I  found  that  it  was  a  lie,  and  you,  my  poor  darling,  were 
innocent,  I  almost  died!  Forgive  me,  Chilon,  I  loved 
you  indeed;  indeed  I  did;  and  I  love  you  now  better  than 


44  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

life;  aye,  more,  even,  than  the  life  to  come!  Oh,  why  did 
you  not  return  to  me  and  help  me!  Why  did  you  leave 
me  to  fight  it  out  alone!  Alone!  Think  of  it — those 
months  of  loneliness ;  and  no  word  from  you !" 

She  had  sunk  to  his  feet,  her  arms  clasping  his  knees, 
her  body  swaying  with  the  violence  of  her  excitement. 

"I  could  not!"  he  said  hoarsely;  "could  not.  I  was  a 
convict !~ 

She  did  not  realize  it  at  once,  but  presently  she  stood 
up  and  holding  him  at  arm's  length  looked  in  wonder 
upon  his  face.  He  replied  to  the  unasked  question: 

"Yes."  he  said,  "a  convict  then;  an  escaped  convict — 
now:  but  innocent!" 

She  did  not  turn  from  him,  but  in  silence  sank  into 
her  chair  again  and  hid  her  face.  He  knelt  by  her  side 
and  placed  his  arm  around  her.  This  time  she  did  not 
repulse  Him. 


HIS  STORY.  45 

CHAPTER  XL 
HIS  STORY. 

"Let  me  tell  you  the  story,"  he  began;  "you  shall  judge 
me.  You  cannot  judge  me  more  harshly  than  I  have 
judged  myself.  Afterwards  I  will  leave  you,  never  to  re- 
turn, unless  some  day  you  wish  for  me.  I  came  in  here 
to-night  to  see  you  and  to  tell  you  that  never  for  a  mo- 
ment since  we  parted  has  your  image  been  dim  within  my 
heart.  I  have  been  weak  and  have  debased  myself,  but, 
Lena,  I  have  been  faithful  to  you.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
you  I  would  long  ago  have  ended  my  life;  but  I  could  not 
fill  an  unknown  grave  leaving  you  to  believe  that  I  had 
been  untrue — had  deserted  you.  I  would  not  let  you 
know  that  I  was  filling  a  living  grave.  That  was  worse. 
Much  as  you  have  suffered,  I  have  suffered  more,  for  I 
was  the  cause  of  it  all,  and  you  were  innocent!" 

He  arose  and  paced  the  floor  in  silence,  but  came  again 
and  seated  himself  upon  a  stool  at  her  feet. 

"When  I  went  to  Uncle  Charles  and  told  him  of  our 
love  and  asked  him  to  permit  our  marriage — the  mar- 
riage already  consummated — he  stormed  and  raved,  as 
I  wrote  you,  like  an  insane  man.  One  would  have  thought 
that  I  was  already  a  criminal,"  he  said  bitterly,  "instead 
of  an  honorable  but  impulsive  and  weak  boy,  consumed 
by  an  honorable  love.  He  threatened  that  if  I  ever  spoke 
of  the  subject  again  to  him  or  you  he  would  disinherit 
me  and  drive  me  from  the  house.  Had  he  been  kinder 
I  think  the  end  would  have  been  different,  but  I  had  more 
than  a  share  of  the  Marbeau  temper  and  replied  in  the 
same  spirit,  declaring  my  intention  to  win  you  with  or 
without  his  consent.  I  pleaded  with  him  for  your  sake 
and  my  father's.  He  grew  frantic  with  rage.  He  struck 
me — he,  my  uncle,  struck  me  over  and  over  with  his 
riding  whip ;  and  I — well,  driven  backward  by  the  fierce- 
ness of  his  attack  and  blows,  I  reached  out  for  a  weapon. 


46  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

My  father's  sword  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  my  hand 
found  it.  I  snatched  it  from  the  scabbard  and  thrust  to 
kill.  The  blade  passed  through  my  uncle's  shoulder,  as 
I  learned  afterwards,  but  I  saw  the  blood  and  saw  him 
stagger.  The  terror  of  an  awful  guilt  seized  me,  and  I 
fled  from  the  house.  I  wrote  you  that  I  would  make  a 
home  for  us  and  return.  I  have  returned,"  he  said,  with 
infinite  pathos,  "but  I  have  no  home!" 

Presently  he  continued: 

"I  cannot  go  over  all  the  weary  months  of  dissipation 
and  the  gradual  descent  after  I  went  north.  For  awhile 
I  tried  hard  for  occupation,  cheered  by  your  letters, 
but  they  ceased 

"I  did  not  know  where  to  write.  Your  letters  were 
intercepted!" 

He  nodded  his  head  gently.  "I  understand  now;  I 
ought  to  have  known.  But  I  was  reckless  and  embit- 
tered. I  failed  everywhere.  My  little  store  of  money 
and  that  which  you  sent  to  me  soon  disappeared,  lost  in 
gambling  and  drink.  I  found  myself  at  length  a  pauper 
and  an  easy  victim  to  others. 

"You  did  not  know  our  Uncle  Gaston  as  well  as  I, 
though  you  were  his  favorite  always.  He  was  here  five 
years,  before  you  returned  for  the  last  time,  from  the 
convent.  He  was  devoted  to  his  profession.  Hearing 
it  said  one  day  at  a  dinner  party  that  a  perfect  counterfeit 
was  an  impossibility — he,  to  amuse  himself,  undertook 
to  make  one.  His  etchings  and  engravings  were  highly 
valued  abroad,  and  he  was,  in  reality,  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  of  living  artists;  but  some  mystery  over- 
hung his  life  and  he  used  a  vignette  only  when  signing. 
For  years,  at  odd  times,  he  worked  upon  these  plates,  and 
when  he  had  finished  them  exhibited  the  print  proofs  to 
Uncle  Charles  and  defied  him  to  find  a  difference  between 
them  and  a  new  five-dollar  note  used  as  copy.  Uncle 
Charles  was  greatly  worried  over  the  matter,  however, 
and  asked  him  to  destroy  the  plates.  This  he  promised 
to  do,  but  I  suppose  forgot  it.  When  he  went  away  to 


HIS  STORY.  47 

Europe  again,  leaving  all  his  outfit  in  the  old  ball-room, 
which  was  his  workshop,  I  often  amused  myself  with  the 
tools,  making  little  etchings,  as  I  had  seen  him  do;  for  I 
had  been  his  companion  and  helper  for  years — almost  his 
only  companion,  and  possessed,  as  he  thought,  considera- 
ble talent.  Uncle  Gaston  was  a  wonderful  organist,  and 
taught  me,  as  you  are  aware,  all  of  music  that  I  knew, 
besides  drawing  and  painting.  One  day  I  came  across 
the  plates  and  amused  myself  making  money  of  common 
white  paper.  This  it  was  that  led  to  my  ruin,  for  when 
my  trunk  was  sent  to  me  it  contained  one  of  these  im- 
prints and  in  an  evil  moment  I  showed  it  to  one  of  my 
companions  in  dissipation. 

"I  hardly  know  how  or  where  I  first  met  Carl  Garner, 
but  from  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance  the  man  ex- 
erted a  strange  power  over  me.  Older  than  I,  but  in  ap- 
pearance not  unlike  me,  he  possessed  a  most  extraor- 
dinary flow  of  fun  and  good  humor  that  rose  superior 
to  all  trials  and  difficulties,  and  these,  depressed  as  I  was, 
bound  me  to  him,  despite  the  fact  that  I  knew  him  to  be 
utterly  devoid  of  principle.  We  became  inseparable  com- 
panions and  I  shared  his  room,  neither  of  us  knowing, 
frequently,  where  the  next  meal  was  to  come  from,  a. 
fact  that  troubled  him  not  a  bit.  He  had  acquaintances 
that  I  never  knew,  and  at  times  plenty  of  newly  printed 
money,  the  base  character  of  which  I  did  not  then  sus- 
pect. Garner  was  at  once  intensely  interested  in  my 
print  and  secured  a  genuine  bill  for  comparison.  But, 
warned  by  some  instinct,  I  did  not  tell  him  the  history  of 
my  plates ;  indeed,  he  did  not  even  know  the  whereabouts 
of  my  former  home. 

"One  day  he  unfolded  to  me  a  scheme  which  he  de- 
clared harmless,  but  likely  to  bring  us  in  plenty  of  money; 
and  this  was,  in  brief,  to  secure  some  good  paper,  print 
more  money  and  turn  it  over  to  the  detectives,  with  an 
offer  to  find  and  deliver  the  plates  for  a  large  reward.  He 
had  invented  a  story  to  explain  our  knowledge  of  them, 
a  very  plausible  story.  The  whole  thing  amounted  only 


48  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

to  a  plan  to  sell  the  plates  to  the  government.  We  had 
not  made  nor  criminally  used  them,  as  I  supposed,  for  I 
thought  that  the  crime  consisted  in  passing  the  bad 
money.  I  hesitated  long  over  the  scheme,  since  it  in- 
volved my  return  to  this  house,  but  overborne  by  neces- 
sity and  Garner's  influence,  I  yielded. 

"We  made  our  way  to  Mammy  Silvy's  cabin,  and  enter- 
ing here  by  my  window,  printed  our  money  upon  Uncle 
Gaston's  little  press.  The  paper  and  inks  were  supplied 
by  Garner.  But  at  the  last  moment  my  suspicions  re- 
turned. Garner  had  the  money  and  preceded  me  from 
the  house.  Instead  of  taking  the  plates  I  secreted  them, 
determined  to  get  the  government's  offer  in  advance.  I 
lingered  to  pack  a  few  of  my  things,  and  when  alone 
came  to  this  room.  It  was  empty.  I  had  no  way  to 
learn  of  your  whereabouts  except  through  Mammy  Silvy, 
and  she  pretended  not  to  know.  I  did  not  go  to  Celeste; 
1  was  ashamed  to  come  back  so  poor.  Besides,  I  expect- 
ed to  return  soon.  Well,  we  made  our  way  north  again, 
Garner  supposing  all  along  that  I  had  the  plates.  When 
I  told  him  they  had  been  left  for  safety  in  a  secret  place  he 
was  furious.  For  two  days  we  scarcely  spoke.  He  was 
moody,  and  at  work  upon  some  problem,  the  details  of 
which  he  at  length  completed.  His  plot  against  me,  for 
such  it  was,  involving,  as  it  did,  the  reading  of  my  charac- 
ter, the  forecasting  of  results  and  a  perfect  knowledge  of 
all  the  circumstances  surrounding  him,  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  in  the  annals  of  crime.  His  real  name  was 
Garner,  but  at  that  time  I  knew  him  only  as  Adams. 

"Under  the  former  name  he  was  wanted  by  the  govern- 
ment for  many  operations  with  counterfeit  money,  as  I 
learned  afterwards,  and  large  standing  rewards  were  of- 
fered for  him.  One  day  I  was  arrested  by  a  detective  as 
Charles  Garner,  and  in  my  satchel  was  found  the  counter- 
feit money.  Garner,  or  Adams,  had  disappeared;  but 
the  reward  was,  of  course,  paid  to  the  detective  and  divid- 
ed with  the  criminal  himself.  He  had  foreseen  that  I 
could  not  escape  except  by  such  a  confession  as  would 


HIS  STORY.  49 

bring  ruin  upon  the  family,  and  somehow  he  knew  that 
I  would  die  first." 

Chilon's  head  sank  upon  his  breast  and  he  was  silent. 
His  arm  lay  across  Lena's  lap,  and  she  let  her  hand  rest 
upon  his. 


50  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XII. 
BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

The  quick,  earnest  words,  the  tones  of  voice,  the  flash- 
ing and  filling  eyes,  the  up-turned  face,  the  pressure  upon 
her  hand,  the  quiver  of  lips,  all  combined  to  reassert  over 
the  young  woman  the  influence  which  Chilon  had 
achieved  years  before.  Fascinated,  she  hung  upon  his 
words,  oblivious  to  time,  place  and  the  circumstances  that 
surrounded  her.  She  was  alone  with  the  man  she  had 
loved  so  long  and  so  well.  He  was  innocent  and  he  loved 
her  with  a  noble,  self-sacrificing  tenderness.  These  facts 
dawning  upon  her  anew,  as  the  narrative  proceeded,  filled 
her  with  a  joy  that  betrayed  itself  in  her  face.  But  over 
all  at  length  settled  a  melancholy,  a  sorrow  too  deep  for 
words.  As  he  told  of  his  arrest  and  trial,  and  his  resolu- 
tion to  protect  their  name  from  infamy,  of  his  condition 
and  long  sentence,  tears  fell  upon  his  hand  and  she  bent 
above  him  until  her  long  hair  almost  hid  his  face. 

"Ah,  the  agony  of  those  years,"  he  said.  "How  I  en- 
dured them  I  do  not  know.  If  I  could  have  sent  you  a 
message  without  telling  of  my  shame  and  disgrace,  I 
could  have  stood  it  better.  I  only  existed  with  the  hope 
of  escape,  piling  up  in  my  heart  bitterness  and  revenge." 

He  broke  down  then  and  shook  with  sobs.  "This  little 
picture  was  all  of  home  that  I  had,  and  I  have  worn  the 
gold  upon  it  to  the  thinness  of  paper.  Morning,  noon, 
night  it  sustained  me,  and  many  a  time  when  sleepless  I 
have  stood  where  the  moonlight  streamed  through  the 
bars  and  caught  their  beams  upon  it  to  see  your  face.  It 
kept  me  from  madness,  from  utter  despair! 

"And  then  my  opportunity  came.  I  was  no  longer  a 
prisoner  to  be  watched  closely.  My  skill  at  the  organ 
had  given  me  at  length  an  easier  position  and  I  was  en- 
abled to  keep  something  of  youth  in  my  heart;  they  let 
me  furnish  the  music  for  Sundays  and  for  special  services, 


BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN.  51 

and  release  came  through  that.  A  woman  who  came 
to  sing  for  the  convicts  many  times,  with  a  divine  voice, 
and  sympathy,  read  in  my  music  innocence  and  the  un- 
utterable longings  of  a  breaking  heart.  I  told  her  of 
our  love,  and  God  be  praised  that  women  can  still  sin! 
She  yielded  to  my  prayer  and  gave  me  tools.  It  took 
months,  but  what  are  months  to  a  prisoner  at  work  for 
freedom !  A  day  dawned  that  found  me  free.  The  same 
kind  friend  gave  me  clothing  and  a  little  money.  I  came 
away  through  the  hills  and  valleys  and  by  the  running 
streams  under  the  blue  of  the  skies  by  day  and  the  stars 
by  night,  to  home,  to  liberty,  to  you!"  He  held  her 
hands  in  his  passionate  grasp,  crying: 

"Lena,  Lena!  I  have  no  name,  but  I  can  make  one! 
In  some  foreign  land  I  will  find  you  a  home!  It  will  take 
time,  years  perhaps,  but  armed  with  the  knowledge  of 
your  love,  blessed  with  your  trust  and  faith,  I  cannot  fail. 
Tell  me,  my  darling,  my  wife,  will  you  come  to  me  then?" 

She  did  not  reply.  Her  head  had  drooped  until  it 
touched  and  rested  upon  his.  He  put  his  arms  about  her. 
Her  cheek  was  cold  and  her  eyes  closed.  Presently  she 
opened  them  and  bestowed  upon  him  a  look  that  thrilled 
him  with  an  awful  fear.  The  shock,  the  excitement,  the 
loss  of  sleep!  Was  she  indeed  dying? 

"Lena!  Lena!"  he  cried,  in  a  changed  voice;  "are  you 
ill?  What  is  it?  Speak  to  me,  dear!  It  is  I,  Chilon, 
your  husband!" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed — not  upon  him,  but  upon  the*  win- 
dow, and  she  seemed  to  be  listening  under  the  growing 
pressure  of  some  great  fear.  He,  too,  turned  and  looked. 
The  sun  was  just  rising  over  the  horizon.  Before  he 
could  utter  a  word,  she,  still  listening,  still  holding  his 
arm,  rose  to  her  feet.  There  came  to  them  then  the 
sound  of  a  man's  footsteps  in  the  hall.  She  ran  to  the 
door  and  turned  the  key ;  and  as  if  fearing  this  were  not 
sufficient  bar  leaned  with  her  whole  strength  against  it. 

"Quick,"  she  whispered,  her  white  face  looking  back; 


52  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"don't  stand  there  watching  me;  hide  yourself.  Oh! 
Chilon,  don't  you  understand?  Hide,  hide  for  my  sake!" 

The  steps  grew  nearer  and  clearer.  The  man  in  the 
room  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  paralyzed  with  aston- 
ishment. She  ran  to  him  and  pushed  him  toward  the 
heavy  draperies  of  a  window.  "For  my  sake,  Chilon,  for 
my  sake!" 

He  found  himself  in  the  slight  recess,  curtained  from 
view,  bewildered,  but  fascinated  by  the  mystery  and  the 
ecstacy  of  fear  that  revealed  itself  in  her  every  tone  and 
motion. 

At  that  instant  the  door  knob  was  turned  and  a  knock 
followed. 

"Lena,"  a  voice  said;  "Lena,  open  the  door!"  To  the 
man  behind  the  curtain  the  voice  came  as  from  a  by-gone 
age,  clear,  cold  and  irritating.  He  dared  not  touch  the 
drapery,  he  shook  so  with  fear  and  horror.  He  heard 
the  woman's  slow  step  cross  the  room,  the  lock  click,  and 
then,  the  man  come  in.  Evidently  the  intruder  was  look- 
ing with  displeasure  upon  her  agitated  face  and  the  writ- 
ing material.  His  first  exclamation  was: 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?     Why  are  you  not  asleep?" 

"I  could  not  sleep,"  she  said;  "I  could  not!"  a  sob  end- 
ing the  sentence. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  coldly,  "still  moping  and  crying.  Are 
you  never  going  to  end  it?"  She  could  not  answer  him. 
He  walked  across  the  room  and  began  to  fleck  the  dust 
from  his  clothing  with  a  whisk  broom.  "I  should  think," 
he  continued,  "for  the  sake  of  your  child  you  would  throw 
off  these  moods  and  not  fill  her  life  with  tears  and  long 
faces.  What  is  the  matter  now?"  he  concluded  crossly. 

"I  am  ill,  so  ill;  leave  me!  leave  me!" 

She  sank  in  a  chair  and  turned  her  face  pleadingly  to- 
ward him. 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  he  said,  after  a  momentary  pause 
in  his  occupation.  "You  purposely  destroy  your  health 
and  spirits  with  your  perpetual  heroics.  Still  grieving 
for  that  vagabond,  of  course." 


BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN.  53 

A  peculiar  expression  swept  over  her  face.  She  spoke 
at  length. 

"  'That  vagabond,'  as  you  call  him,  is  a  gentleman. 
You  are  a  cur!" 

"Heigho!"  he  exclaimed,  with  affected  amusement. 
"Well,  I  have  only  ridden  out  for  a  few  moments  with 
Uncle  Charles.  You  will  be  down  to  breakfast,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"No!" 

"Good-bye,  then;  come  home  when  you  like.  Little 
Lena  and  I  will  try  to  exist,  in  the  meantime." 

He  touched  his  hair  with  her  brush,  drew  the  comb 
through  his  moustache  and  disappeared  without  further 
remark. 

Lena  stood  with  a  stony  gaze  fixed  upon  the  carpet. 
No  sound  broke  the  stillness  after  the  echoes  of  his  reced- 
ing footsteps  died  away  in  the  hall.  The  scene  floated 
about  her.  Dazed  and  bewildered  she  passed  her  hand 
repeatedly  across  her  face.  What  had  happened?  What 
was  she  doing  before  he  came?  To  whom  was  she  talk- 
ing? Then  she  sprung  to  her  feet  and  stood  gazing  in 
terror  upon  the  curtain.  Was  Chilon  in  the  room — had 
she  dreamed  it  all?  Who  was  behind  that  curtain?  No 
sound  answered  her;  not  a  fold  of  drapery  shook.  She 
crept  to  it  fascinated  and  touched  it  with  her  hand.  Slow- 
ly she  drew  it  aside  and  looked  fearfully  in  where  a  man 
was  standing  with  ashen  face  and  closed  eyes.  She 
plucked  his  sleeve ;  he  did  not  move.  With  a  loud  cry  she 
threw  her  arms  around  him  and  hid  her  face  upon  his 
breast. 

"Forgive  me,  Chilon,  forgive  me!  I  am  not  to 
blame!"  Her  grief  roused  him  at  length.  "They  told 
me,  they  showed  me  proof — they  lied  to  me!  I  was 
crazy;  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing!" 

"Who  did  this?  Who  robbed  me  of  heaven,  of  faith  in 
God — of  you?"  The  menace,  the  calmness  of  his  words 
sealed  her  lips.  "Was  it  my  cousin  Richard  Marbeau? 
Was  it  the  man  who  entered  this  room?" 


54  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Hush!  Hush!"  she  said;  "oh,  what  have  I  done?" 

"Then  there  is  another,"  he  said  quietly;  "stay  here. 
I  go  to  meet  him  first!"  But  she  threw  herself  against 
the  door  and  barred  the  way. 

"Chilon!  Chilon!  Don't!  Oh,  no,  not  now!  It  is  ruin 
— ruin  for  all."  She  was  struggling  madly  to  resist  him. 
"Chilon,  hear  me;  oh,  you  do  not  know  him!  It  is  ruin 
if  you  kill  him !  If  you  fail  it  is  still  ruin,  for  he  will  be- 
tray you!  Keep  your  liberty,  for  me.  I  will  some  day 
have  no  other  friend." 

She  saw  the  hesitation  and  pushed  him  to  a  chair. 

"There,  Chilon,  stay  here!  It  is  I,  Lena,  who  begs 
you!  I  will  go  down.  He  will  not  come  again!  Stay 
in  this  room;  it  is  mine!"  She  did  not  know  what  she 
was  saying.  He  was  silent,  his  white  face  convulsed  with 
his  emotions.  She  plunged  her  own  into  a  bowl  of  water, 
brushed  her  hair  with  feverish  haste  and  came  to  him. 

"Promise  me  you  will  stay."  He  looked  steadily  into 
her  eyes. 

"Is  it  for  my  sake,  or ." 

"As  between  you  two,  it  is  for  yours.  May  God  have 
no  mercy  upon  me  if  I  do  not  speak  the  truth." 

"I  have  never  lost  belief  in  you,"  he  said.  "I  will 
stay."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  came  back  quickly, 
touched  his  forehead  with  her  lips,  and  passed  out. 


BETWEEN  TWO  LIVES.  55 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
BETWEEN  TWO  LIVES. 

At  the  bend  of  the  stairs  Lena  Marbeau  paused  to  col- 
lect her  thoughts.  Up  to  that  moment,  since  the  meet- 
ing with  Chilon,  she  had  been  hurried  blindly  forward 
upon  the  current  of  her  emotions.  Now  she  realized  that 
some  plan  of  action  was  necessary  for  her  safety  and 
good  name,  as  well  as  for  the  safety  of  the  man  hiding  be- 
hind her  in  her  room.  In  a  few  moments  she  must  de- 
scend into  the  library,  meet  the  two  men  there  and  pre- 
serve a  cool  and  collected  demeanor.  If  only  she  could 
get  into  the  open  air  for  ten  minutes,  she  thought,  her 
head  would  clear  itself  of  the  confusion  there,  her  tem- 
ples throb  less  madly;  but  she  dared  not  leave  the  house. 

If  her  husband  were  to  ascend  again  to  that  room! 

She  shuddered  to  think  of  the  result.  He  might  escape 
with  his  life,  but  no  explanation  could  clear  his  mind  of 
the  suspicions  that  Chilon's  presence  there  would  arouse; 
and  existence  for  her  was  bitter  enough  already. 

She  saw  in  advance  the  scene,  heard  his  recriminations. 
The  divorce  court  might  follow;  possibly  separation  from 
her  little  girl.  This  thought  caused  her  to  clutch  the 
balustrade  and  crouch  back. 

Just  below  her  was  the  library  door,  open.  She  heard 
the  voices  of  the  men  there  blending  with  the  steady 
murmur  of  the  waterfall  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the  rhyth- 
mic stroke  of  the  little  engine  and  the  shrill,  monotonous 
call  of  guinea  hens  in  the  orchard.  How  strange  it  was  that 
with  all  the  world  at  peace  she  should  be  crouching  there, 
miserably,  between  two  lives,  one  begun  and  ended  above, 
the  other  entered  into  and  endured  below.  Could  she 
face  the  issue  and  keep  her  secret? 

Though  young  in  years  still,  Lena  Marbeau  had 
learned  self-control  in  a  bitter  school  and  knew  how  to 
crush  her  own  heart  with  smiling  face.  The  sudden- 


56  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

ness,  the  utter  unexpectedness  of  the  late  experience  had 
temporarily  overwhelmed  her;  her  nerves  were  unstrung 
from  excitement  and  loss  of  sleep.  But  she  fixed  clearly 
in  her  mind  that  she  was  innocent  of  wrong  doing,  and 
that,  right  or  wrong,  she  did  not  fear  either  of  the  two 
men  below.  One,  in  years  gone  by,  had  been  kind  and 
good,  but  in  the  hour  of  her  great  distress  and  sorrow  had 
made  life  there  unendurable;  had  practically  driven  her 
away,  and  had  driven  away  by  his  harshness  the  only  man 
she  had  ever  loved.  He  had  destroyed  her  youth  and 
happiness,  and  while  it  was  true  that  he  had  taken  her 
back  again,  and  was  generous  and  forgiving,  he  had  not 
brought  back  happiness  to  her  heart  nor  light  into  her 
life. 

The  other — well,  she  feared  only  to  look  into  her  heart 
and  read  its  estimate  of  him.  He  had  deceived  her  in  the 
crudest  manner;  had  made  her  untrue  to  the  man  she 
worshipped  years  ago  and  loved  now,  as  she  knew  al- 
ready, with  the  whole  strength  and  passion  of  her  nature. 
He  stood  between  her  and  happiness.  Fear?  If  the 
worst  came  let  them  beware.  As  long  as  they  let  her,  she 
would  be  what  the  world  demanded;  but  she  could  not, 
she  would  not,  stand  another  stroke  of  cruelty.  Oh,  if 
they  would — if  they  would  give  her  an  excuse! — She 
checked  the  thought.  The  safety  of  Chilon  was  at  stake! 

With  proudly  lifted  head  she  descended  the  steps  and 
passed  into  the  room,  graciously  responding  to  their  salu- 
tations, and  leading  the  way  to  the  breakfast  table  with  a 
sweet  dignity  that  she  did  not  often  choose  to  exhibit. 
Richard  Marbeau  was  puzzled.  What  new  mood  was 
this,  what  game  was  she  playing;  who  trying  to  deceive? 
He  watched  her  in  admiration,  his  peculiar  mental  bent 
revealed  in  the  solution  that  it  reached.  Her  father  is 
getting  old,  he  said  to  himself,  looking  toward  the  col- 
onel, and  in  some  way  she  has  found  out  that  I  am  writing 
his  will.  Oh,  woman!  woman!  But  the  thought  was  an 
agreeable  one. 

"You  have  braced  up  wonderfully,"  he  said  to  her  en- 


BETWEEN  TWO  LIVES.  57 

couragingly,  "and  I  am  glad  that  you  have  changed  your 
mind.  With  a  nap  after  breakfast  you  will  be  all  right 
again.  But  by  the  way,  I  want  to  see  you  on  a  matter 
of  business  before  I  go,  so  don't  drop  off  asleep  before  I 
come  up."  She  smiled  into  his  face,  a  thing  so  rare  that 
he  positively  suspended  eating  and  gazed  upon  her  with 
mouth  half  open. 

"I  think  I  will  take  a  little  walk  after  breakfast,"  she 
said,  "come  with  me  and  perhaps  we  may  discuss  it  then." 

"Not  sick,  I  hope,  daughter!"  the  colonel  interrupted, 
with  solicitude. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!  I  was  simply  sleepless  last  night." 
Both  men  looked  to  their  plates,  the  stern,  gray  face  of 
the  elder  softening  as  he  imagined  the  cause.  It  was  not 
often  that  she  came,  and  this  was  the  first  night  she  had 
spent  in  the  house  since  she  left  it  because  of  that  scape- 
grace. Again  the  manly  face  of  the  soldier  changed. 
The  set  look  came  back. 

"Go  down  and  see  the  pond  lilies;  they  have  begun  to 
open.  Take  Dick  out  in  the  boat  and  let  him  get  you 
some.  There  is  nothing  prettier,  except  a  rose,"  he  said, 
and  then,  with  a  return  of  his  oldtime  gallantry,  adding, 
"And  my  daughter."  Her  handkerchief  slipped  to  the 
floor. 

"Never  mind,  Jerry,"  she  said  to  the  old  waiter,  and 
bent  to  reach  it  herself.  "I  think,"  she  replied,  "I  won't 
go  there;  I  do  not  feel  equal  to  the  glare  of  sunlight  on 
the  water,  and  Mr.  Marbeau  is  to  go  back  soon — did  I 
so  understand?" 

"Yes;  can't  stay  but  a  few  moments." 

She  went  with  him  into  the  flower  garden  only,  and 
busied  herself  idly  plucking  roses  as  he  told  her  of  the 
will  he  was  drawing. 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret?"  he  said,  with  sudden  con- 
fidence, won  over  by  her  new  and  charming  mood. 

"Can  I?"  she  smiled,  looking  up  archly  from  her  task, 
"when  there  is  a  necessity  for  it,  yes!" 

"There  is  a  necessity  for  it,"  he  said,  "but  you  have  a 


58  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

right  to  know.  Uncle  Charles,  I  think,  desires  it.  With 
the  exception  of  a  few  bequests,  Uncle  Charles  wills  the 
bulk  of  his  fortune  to  you  for  life,  to  revert  to  your  oldest 
living  child  upon  your  death." 

"Ah!"  The  sudden  change  in  her  manner,  the  half- 
suppressed  exclamation,  the  peculiar  expression  that 
overspread  her  face,  startled  and  puzzled  him.  An  in- 
stant later  she  was  smiling  again. 

"I  was  not  expecting  that,"  she  said;  "I  can  scarcely 
believe  it." 

"It  is  true,  nevertheless.  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear." 
She  had  stooped  to  reach  a  blossom  growing  low  upon 
the  bush,  and  at  his  words  glanced  upward  with  a  smile. 
Behind  and  above  him  were  the  windows  of  her  room,  and 
a  man's  face  looked  down  upon  them.  A  deathly  pallor 
overspread  her  own.  Her  husband  caught  her  arm. 

"You  are  ill!"  he  exclaimed,  with  alarm.  "There,  let 
me  help  you  to  the  house."  He  placed  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  but  with  a  sudden  energy  she  cast  it  off  and 
looked  upon  him  with  an  expression  that  he  never  forgot. 
Amazed,  he  could  only  glare  at  her  in  return.  She 
laughed  and  led  the  way  back. 

"Men  are  so  silly!"  she  said.  The  appropriateness  of 
this  comment  did  not  strike  him ;  but  sudden  transitions 
of  moods  were  common  to  her.  He  accompanied  her  as 
far  as  the  library,  and  she  stood  by  the  center  table  filling 
a  vase  with  flowers  while  he  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
the  colonel.  Coming  to  her  side  he  said: 

"Will  you  not  give  me  a  rose?" 

"Why,  yes;"  she  withdrew  her  hands,  not  looking  up; 
"take  your  choice."  He  chose  a  yellow  one,  hesitated  a 
moment  and  placed  it  in  his  button-hole. 

"Papa,  shall  I  give  you  a  rose?"  she  inquired,  going 
toward  the  other. 

"Yes,  indeed,  daughter."  She  pinned  a  pink  bud  upon 
his  lapel. 

"Is  it  not  beautiful?"  she  asked,  stepping  back  and 


BETWEEN  TWO  LIVES.  59 

turning  her  head  from  side  to  side  to  better  judge  of  its 
effect. 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  wish  it  were  blooming  upon  your 
cheeks.  Come  back  to  Ravenswood  oftener,  child,  and 
the  colors  will  return.  Let  her  come  often,  Dick;  it  does 
me  good,  and  it  will  do  her  good." 

"As  often  as  she  will,"  said  the  younger  man.  "Good- 
bye! Good-bye,  Lena!"  She  was  again  arranging  the 
roses,  and  merely  nodded  to  him  over  her  shoulder.  Col- 
onel Marbeau  looked  upon  her  thoughtfully  a  moment 
and  followed  his  nephew  to  the  gate,  where  a  horse  was 
waiting.  The  young  woman  slowly  ascended  the  stairs ; 
the  house-maid  was  passing  below. 

"Nancy,  I  may  go  to  sleep.  Don't  disturb  me.  I  will 
call  when  I  need  you."  Beyond  the  bend,  she  sank  again 
to  the  steps  and  gave  way  to  trembling.  "If  he  had  staid 
ten  minutes  longer,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  would  have 
fainted,  and  they  might  have  carried  me  to  my  room!" 
She  turned  her  head  and  listened.  No  sound  came  from 
above.  Through  the  hall  below  floated  in  and  upward 
the  echoes  of  a  horse's  galloping  feet.  Rising  quickly, 
she  hurried  noiselessly  along  the  hallway,  turned  softly 
the  latch  and  entered  her  room.  Chilon  was  leaning 
against  the  mantel,  pale  and  haggard.  His  eyes  ques- 
tioned her. 

"Gone,"  she  said  softly.  Hesitating  a  moment,  she 
came  to  him,  looked  tenderly  into  his  troubled  eyes. 
Upon  her  bosom  was  one  magnificent  crimson  rose;  she 
thought  a  moment,  and  loosening  its  stem,  placed  it  upon 
the  lapel  of  his  coat.  With  a  brave  effort  at  cheerfulness 
and  a  smile,  she  said:  "You  must  leave  me  now,  Chilon, 
but  I  will  see  you  again." 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  can  I  leave  you?  I  would 
be  discovered  before  I  got  outside  the  yard." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said  in  bewilderment. 

"Have  you  forgotten,  indeed?  I  am  a  fugitive.  No 
one  but  Silvy  has  seen  me,  and  her  cabin  is  my  hiding 
place.  I  came  into  this  house  last  night  to  search  the 


60  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

newspaper  files  for  information  that  I  needed.  I  saw  you 
when  you  came  to  the  library  for  your  satchel,  and  fol- 
lowed you  here." 

She  was  breathless  now  with  dismay  and  the  sudden 
realization  of  her  situation. 

"Then  you  must  stay  here — in  my  room  all  day!  Oh, 
no ! — no ! — Chilon !" 

"Shall  I  go,  then?"  he  asked  bitterly. 

"Oh,  yes;  go,  go  at  once!  Do  not,  if  you  love  me, 
hesitate  a  moment." 

She  was  wringing  her  hands  in  her  excitement.  With- 
out a  word  more  he  walked  across  the  room  and  placed 
his  hand  upon  the  knob;  but  in  an  instant  she  was  by 
his  side. 

"No,  no!  What  was  I  saying?  You  stay;  I  will  go! 
Oh,  Chilon,  if  you  love  me — you  do  love  me,  I  know — 
pity  me,  spare  me,  Chilon ;  I  could  not  stand — remember, 
it  is  not  Lena  alone  that  talks,  but  the  mother  of  my 
child!  Oh,  if  I  should  lose  her,  if  I  should  lose  her!" 
Her  arms  were  about  him  now  and  tears  were  streaming 
down  her  cheek.  He  held  her  by  both  arms  and  looked 
down  into  her  eyes. 

"Would  you  stay,  if  it  were  not  for  her?" 

"Would  I?"  the  question  burst  from  her.  "Yes,  I 
would  stay  with  you,  I  would  go  with  you  to  the  end  of 
the  earth!"  He  kissed  her  forehead  tenderly. 

"Tell  me  all."  He  spoke  sadly  and  with  a  desperate 
effort  at  manhood.  "Tell  me  the  truth.  I  will  go  then. 
There  is  now  no  reason  why  I  should  stay."  She  leaned 
against  him  in  silence  a  moment,  hiding  her  face. 

"As  well  now  as  any  time,"  she  said,  with  weariness. 
He  drew  her  to  the  chair  and  seated  himself,  she  upon  the 
stool  by  his  side.  Unconsciously  they  had  reversed  their 
positions  of  the  night  before;  and  indeed  they  were  re- 
versed; for  this  time  she  was  to  plead  her  cause.  She 
took  his  hand  in  hers  and  held  it  tightly  as  she  began. 


"MY  HOLIEST  AFFECTIONS."  6l 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
"MY  HOLIEST  AFFECTIONS." 

"When  you  were  gone,"  she  said  gently,  "papa  sent  for 
me.  I  have  never  seen  him  so  angry.  His  wound  trou- 
bled him  a  great  deal,  but  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  wound 
I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  done.  It  placed  a 
limit  upon  his  violence,  and  when  it  healed  he  was  calmer. 
From  the  day  he  let  me  talk  to  him  I  begged  and  pleaded 
for  our  love — for  you,  without  telling  him  of  our  mar- 
riage. I  told  him  that  you  must  have  struck  him  in  an 
outburst  of  passion,  and  then  for  the  first  time  I  learned 
of  the  circumstances  under  which  he  was  wounded.  He 
said  emphatically  that  it  was  the  one  thing  he  did  not 
blame  you  for;  that  if  you  had  not  resented  a  blow  from  a 
whip  you  would  have  been  too  ignoble  to  wear  your 
father's  name.  But  he  would  entertain  no  proposition 
looking  to  our  reunion  and  declared  that  he  would  disin- 
herit me  if  I  attempted  to  join  you.  To  this  I  replied  that 
when  you  came  for  me  I  would  go  with  you  and  if  he 
pressed  me  too  far  I  would  go  to  search  for  you.  If  left 
alone  I  was  willing  to  remain  and  wait  but  no  one  should 
wrong  you  in  your  absence.  I  think  I  must  have  inherit- 
ed a  good  deal  of  the  family  temper,  for  I  convinced  him 
that  I  was  in  earnest." 

"What  was  the  real  cause  of  his  violent  opposition;  do 
you  know?" 

"No.  But  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  my  marrying 
your  cousin,  Richard,  who  was  the  oldest  and  would  be 
the  head  of  the  family.  Besides,  he  was  a  lawyer,  and 
papa's  business  would  require  a  legal  mind  to  protect  it. 

"Another  reason  papa  had  was  that  Richard  was  Cath- 
olic, like  himself,  and  most  of  the  foreign  family  connec- 
tions, while  your  mother  had  been  Protestant  and  you 
were  following  in  her  footsteps.  When  I  was  allowed  to 
come  home  and  to  see  you,  Chilon,  whom  no  one  count- 


62  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

ed  a  danger,  I  found  love  and  sympathy.  I  loved  you 
from  the  first.  Oh,  God!  how  I  loved  you."  She  bent 
her  head  upon  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  weeping  silently. 
"I  had  no  mother;  the  sisters  had  been  good  to  me,  but 
stern  and  strict.  You  were  all,  and  more.  With  you 
everything  I  did  was  right,  and  you  praised  and  loved  me 
until  I  was  blind  to  all  except  the  one  fact  that  you  did 
love  me.  I  would  have  died  for  you  then; — I  would  die 
for  you  now; —  ah,  if  I  could  only  live  for  you,  Chilon, — 
if  God  would  only  let  me  live  for  you !" — Her  voice  broke. 
She  waited  a  moment,  shaking  her  head  mutely  as  the  full 
realization  of  her  situation  came  back  to  her. 

"Then  they  began  to  try  and  change  me.  I  left  the 
house  and  took  refuge  with  your  sister.  Oh,  but  if  there 
is  an  angel  on  earth,  she  lives  in  Celeste!  She  was  good 
to  me.  She  came  here  to  papa  and  they  stormed  and 
raved  at  each  other,  for — she  is  a  Marbeau,  too,  and  injus- 
tice maddened  her.  He  took  up  the  idea  that  she  had  led 
me  off  and  would  try  and  bring  about  our  marriage ;  and 
he  drove  her  from  the  house,  swearing  that  he  would 
never  speak  to  her  again, — his  dead  brother's  child.  And 
he  never  did."  She  paused  a  moment  and  reflected. 
"Months  passed.  Your  letters  ceased.  I  did  not  know 
where  to  write.  Richard  came  again  and  again,  and  with 
a  cunning  that  deceived  me,  offered  his  friendship.  He 
pretended  that  he  had  detectives  searching  for  you,  and  in 
this  way  he  got  my  sympathy.  I  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  Time  went  on, — a  year — two  years; — not  a  word 
came  to  me;  and  then  the  blow  fell.  They  showed  me 
the  train  robbery  and  your  name.  I  would  not,  I  could 
not  believe  it.  I  still  held  out  for  you.  I  was  the  only 
one.  Then  your  cousin  went  on  to  see  about  you  and 
when  he  came  back, — God  forgive  him,  I  never  will, — he 
told  me  that  there  had  been  no  mistake.  He  brought  me 
a  message  from  you, — too  cruel  to  repeat  now.  I  know 
it  was  false, — I  soon  found  out.  They  persuaded  me  to 
go  to  my  aunt's  in  the  city ;  they  found  out  my  secret  mar- 
riage, they  advertised  for  a  divorce, — they  hurried  it 


"MY  HOLIEST  AFFECTIONS."  63 

through, — and  I  was  free.  My  father  knew  nothing  of 
the  lies  told  to  me;  he  has  said  it,  and  I  believe  him. 
When  Richard  came  back,  he  brought  a  picture  of  the  real 
culprit,  and  it  was  published  to  vindicate  the  family.  They 
never  let  me  see  that  paper.  I  was  secluded  and  too  mis- 
erable to  read  or  care  for  anything,  and  my  aunt  had 
taken  me  abroad.  Somehow,  they  got  my  consent;  my 
father  was  getting  old;  I  had  wronged  him,  disgraced  the 
family; — they  played  upon  my  holiest  affections  to  ac- 
complish their  base  ends; — and  I,  still  a  weak  girl — yield- 
ed." She  was  crying  softly.  He  did  not  speak,  but  sat 
with  his  free  hand  gently  stroking  her  hair. 

"And  then,"  he  said,  at  length;  "go  on,  I  listen!" 

"Months  after  it  all  came  out.  By  accident  I  learned 
the  truth,  and  in  a  frenzy  charged  him  with  his  treachery. 
He  coolly  admitted  it,  and  pleaded  his  love.  His  love! 
The  greed  and  avarice  of  a  mere  money  seeker!  The  love 
of  a  brute!" 

"Be  calm,"  said  the  man  by  her  side,  tightening  his 
clasp  on  her  hand  and  head.  "Tell  me  the  rest!" 

"I  left  him  and  went  to  your  sister.  He  came  and 
pleaded;  and  then — my  little  girl  was  born, — and  he 
threatened  to  take  her  away!  I  did  not  know  that  he 
could  not  have  taken  her,  that  no  moral  offense  could  be 
proved  that  unfitted  me  for  the  custody  of  my  child.  I 
went; — but  not  as  his  wife.  From  that  day  we  separated. 
I  have  made  the  best  of  the  wretched  life.  Papa  has  real- 
ized the  sadness  of  it;  he  knows  now  what  a  mistake  was 
made,  and  blames  himself.  I  know  it  from  his  tenderness 
to  me.  He  has  asked  me  to  come  here  frequently  and 
stay  with  him,  and  I  come  for  the  day,  often.  Last 
night  was  the  first  I  have  spent  beneath  this  roof  since  I 
left  it  years  ago ;  and  before  I  retired  we  had  been  talking 
about  you.  He  spoke  so  kindly  of  you,  it  almost  made 
me  love  him  again ; — for  God  forgive  me,  I  used  to  think 
that  I  hated  him.  Oh,  Chilon!  If  you  had  only  let  me 
come  to  you, — if  you  had  only  given  me  some  address  to 
write  to  you.  A  one-room  house  with  daily  work  with 


64  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

the  needle,  or  even  at  the  washtub — anything  to  be  with 
you; — I  would  have  been  so  happy!  Look  at  me  now; 
not  yet  thirty;  no  happiness  in  all  my  life  but  those  few 
sweet  months;  no  happiness  in  the  years  to  come; 
nothing  but  misery,  wretchedness,  separation; — unless 
Heaven  sends  me  release!"  She  poured  out  the  broken 
sentences  passionately  and  ceased  from  exhaustion. 
There  was  a  long  silence.  The  slow,  rhythmic  rise  and 
fall  of  his  hand  upon  her  head  continued. 

"Is  that  all, — have  you  told  me  all?"  he  said  gently, 
at  length.  She  lifted  her  face  and  looked  pitifully  into  his, 
her  eyes  melting  with  love  and  tenderness. 

"That  is  all!"  The  voice  was  as  the  whisper  of  the 
wind  in  the  pines.  He  was  still  again  for  a  time. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said  at  length,  calmly,  "there  is  no  child 
to  call  the  convict  'father.' '  Gently  lifting  her  to  her 
feet  and  supporting  her  whole  weight,  he  half  led,  half 
carried  her  to  the  door. 

"Shall  I  see  you  again  before  I  go?"  She  steadied  her- 
self with  her  hand  on  the  lintel  as  she  stood  to  answer 
his  question,  her  sad  eyes  lingering  upon  his. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  will  come  again." 


"LET  HIM  BEWARE  OF  RAVENSWOOD."       65 

CHAPTER  XV. 
"LET  HIM  BEWARE  OF  RAVENSWOOD." 

Twilight  had  fallen  when,  for  the  fourth  time,  Lena 
came  with  noiseless  step  and  entered  the  room.  He  still 
lay  where  he  had  thrown  himself,  upon  the  bed,  and  still 
slept  the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  This  time  she  bore  a  tray 
of  food  and  arranged  it  upon  the  table.  Going  to  Colonel 
Marbeau's  dressing  room  she  secured  the  little  alcohol 
lamp  and  silver  boiler  that  he  used  for  heating  his  shav- 
ing water  and  soon  had  a  cup  of  tea  steaming.  To  obtain 
all  these  things  had  been  no  easy  task,  but  she  had  learned 
many  things  in  her  short  life,  and  no  one  suspected  her. 
When  she  excused  herself  for  the  night  the  colonel  re- 
turned to  his  political  papers  in  the  library,  the  servants 
hurried  through  the  few  preparations  after  tea  and  the 
house  was  still  again. 

She  stood  above  the  sleeper  a  moment  and  gazed  into 
his  face,  now  relaxed  and  wearing  something  of  the  old 
boyishness  that  had  once  characterized  it.  It  was  hard 
to  realize  that  so  many  years  had  passed  since  she  had 
seen  him  lying  there,  her  husband,  the  hour  for  their 
daily  separation  at  hand.  She  could  not  count  them. 
It  was  a  lifetime.  She  thought  of  all  that  had  transpired 
in  those  years,  of  her  grief  and  sorrows  and  her  fatal  trou- 
bles. From  these  her  mind  turned  with  sudden  remorse 
to  him ;  lonely,  wifeless,  a  fugitive,  with  no  friend  on  earth 
to  help  him.  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  eyes  to  check 
the  tears. 

''One,"  she  murmured,  "one!  until  death  parts  us!  So 
I  promised  and  so  it  shall  be!"  She  knelt  by  his  side,  her 
lips  to  his  ear,  her  hand  upon  his  brow.  "Chilon!  Chilon! 
Awake,  it  is  I,  Lena!"  He  opened  his  eyes  and  lay  half 
conscious. 

"Did  some  one  speak,"  he  said,  "or  was  I  dreaming?" 
His  eyes  traced  the  outlines  of  the  room.  It  was  not  a 
5 


66  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

cell,  nor  was  it  the  humble  cabin  that  had  been  his  home; 
and  a  hand  was  upon  his  brow. 

"It  is  I,  Lena.  Wake!"  He  started  up  violently,  and 
noted  the  lighted  lamp. 

"Lena!  Lena!"  he  exclaimed,  "have  I  slept  so  long?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  disengaging  herself  with  gentle  force, 
for  he  had  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "See,  here  is  your 
supper!  I  came  several  times,  but  you  were  sleeping  so 
soundly  I  would  not  waken  you."  She  was  forcing  her 
smiles  and  trying  to  brave  it  out.  "Be  seated  and  let  me 
wait  upon  you  as  I  used — "  She  Hesitated,  sobbed  and 
turned  away  a  moment,  but  when  he  placed  his  arm 
around  her  with  tender  solicitude,  she  broke  from  him 
again  resolutely.  "Sit  there,  now;  the  tea  is  hot  and  we 
have  not  much  time." 

He  was  not  hungry,  but  he  made  an  effort  to  please 
her.  She  seated  herself  opposite  him  and  ministered  to 
his  wants,  glad  that  she  could  do  even  that  little  for  him. 
Her  quick  mind  had  already  noted  a  change  in  him.  The 
wild  excitement  of  eye  and  action  were  gone,  and  in  its 
place,  after  the  surprise  of  his  wakening,  had  come  a  quiet 
that  was  ill  suited  to  his  situation.  The  boyishness  no 
longer  shone  in  his  face;  he  was  a  man  again,  cool  and 
collected,  with  a  definite  purpose  in  mind.  He  stood  up 
at  length  and  took  her  hand  in  both  his. 

"Now,"  he  said  gently,  "I  thank  you  for  all  your  love 
and  faith,  and  this  last  kindness  to  Chilon.  If  it  so  hap- 
pens that  we  do  not  meet  again,  remember  that  however 
wrong  my  life  has  been,  I  have  never  lost  sight  of  you, 
the  star  of  my  long  night.  I  know  you  are  loving  and 
true;  that  you  have  been  wronged  more  than  any  woman." 
He  struggled  a  moment  for  calmness.  "You  are  my  all," 
he  said  at  length,  "but  you  must  soon  be  to  me  a  mem- 
ory. I  will  love  you  and  bless  you  forever."  He  lifted 
her  face  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers  a  moment.  Then 
gently  disengaging  her  arms,  he  turned  away. 

Oh,  strange  power  of  womanhood's  intuition!  She, 
amazed  at  the  change  in  him,  stood  looking  after  his  re- 


"LET  HIM  BEWARE  OF  RAVENSWOOD."       67 

treating  form,  then  ran  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"Chilon,  promise  me  one  thing,"  she  said,  with  sudden 
understanding,  "will  you  promise  me?"  He  searched  her 
face  and  read  the  truth. 

"No!  I  will  not  promise.  I  have  sworn  the  other  way." 
She  locked  the  door  and  placed  her  back  to  it. 

"You  must!"  she  said  with  desperate  firmness.  "You 
are  innocent  now.  I  love  you  and  believe  sometimes  that 
all  may  some  day  be  well;  that  faint  hope  is  my  all;  but 
oh,  Chilon; — a  murderer — a  murderer!  I  could  not,  I 
could  not  live  through  that!" 

"And  I  cannot  live  through  this,"  he  said  passionately, 
his  restraint  broken.  "I  can  forgive  him  his  cowardly 
sacrifice  of  me,  of  my  happiness,  but  he  has  wronged 
you,  and  as  God  lives  he  shall  die!" 

"What!"  she  cried,  awed  and  horrified.  "You  would 
assassinate  him!  You  would  curse  my  life  with  a  new 
horror;  make  my  child  an  orphan!  For  what?  Would 
that  right  the  wrong?  Would  that  bring  us  together? 
Do  you  think  that  I  could  ever  look  into  your  eyes  again, 
or  touch  your  hand  or  lips?  Never!  The  day  you  do 
such  a  deed,  you  pass  from  my  heart,  from  my  love,  from 
my  life,  forever!"  He  never  forgot  the  words  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face.  Her  mood  changed  instantly.  "Oh, 
no,  Chilon,  that  is  impossible  for  you — for  you!  You  are 
excited,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  Come; 
Lena  loves  you,  worships  you !  If  you  do  this  deed  you 
slay  yourself  and  me!"  He  was  dazed  by  this  passionate 
outburst.  He  could  not  understand. 

"You  love  him,  then!"  The  words  were  whispered  al- 
most in  awe. 

"No;  a  thousand  times,  no!  But  I  love  you."  He 
looked  away,  almost  overcome. 

"Lena,  I  have  sworn  by  my  holiest  memories,  by  my 
mother's  grave,  by  the  love  of  heaven  and  the  love  I  have 
for  you !  While  I  waited  and  walked  this  room,  I  plead- 
ed with  God  for  an  opportunity!  I  swore  that  if  ever  I 


68  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

meet  Richard  Marbeau  I  would  kill  him!  I  shall  keep  my 
oath  if  it  sinks  me  into  the  blackest  depths!"  She  re- 
treated slightly,  her  wide  open  eyes  full  of  horror.  Her 
mind  flew  to  another  defense. 

"But  you  did  not  swear  to  seek  him.  Promise  me  you 
will  not  go  into  the  city!  Promise  me  that,  Chilon;  1 
would  do  anything  you  ask  of  me;  promise!  You  were 
going  to  seek  him.  Promise  me  you  will  hot  go!"  He 
held  her  in  his  arms  where  she  had  thrown  herself  again. 

"I  promise  that!"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  proudly,  "you  need  not  swear  it,  Chilon, 
as  you  did  the  other.  Lena  does  not  need  an  oath  from 
you!" 

"I  promise,"  he  repeated,  brokenly,  "but  God  pity  him 
if  we  meet!  You  do  not  need  my  oath;  you  believe  me! 
I  shall  keep  them  all, — the  pledges.  I  said  when  you 
gave  me  your  girlhood  that  I  would  protect  you!  Mis- 
fortune, weakness,  treachery  destroyed  my  power  to 
keep  that  vow,  but  I  am  free  now,  and  I  shall  protect  you 
against  even  your  husband.  The  man  who  wronged,  who 
betrayed  and  debased  you  cannot  meet  me  and  live!'' 
Again  his  excitement  overcame  him.  She  soothed  him 
with  her  arms  upon  his  shoulders,  her  earnest  face  up- 
turned to  his. 

"You  will  not  meet — you  cannot  meet — and  if  you  did, 
you  would  not  kill  Lena  to  keep  a  promise.  Oh,  no, 
Chilon,  think  no  more  of  that!" 

"Shall  I  never,  never  see  you  again,  Lena?"  he  cried, 
in  agony,  now  that  the  moment  for  parting  was  upon 
them.  The  fear  of  that  coming  crime  was  still  overshad- 
owing her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "We  shall  meet  again, 
Chilon!" 

"Here?" 

"Here.     I  will  dare  all  for  you,  Chilon." 

"How  shall  I  know  when  you  are  alone?"  She  looked 
about  her  quickly. 

"The  lamp  at  that  window  will  mean  it  is  safe ;  at  the 


"LET  HIM  BEWARE  OF  RAVENSWOOD."       69 

other,  it  will  mean  danger.  But,  oh,  Chilon,  you  would 
not,  you  could  not  break  your  promise  to  me!  Any- 
where, come  anywhere,  but  not  to  the  city!" 

"I  shall  not  break  it,"  he  said.  "I  will  not  enter  there 
while  Richard  lives.  But  let  him  beware  of  Ravens- 
wood  !" 


70  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
"I  KNOW  WHERE  TO  FIND  IT." 

He  tore  himself  from  her  arms  and  made  his  way  out 
through  his  old  room.  Descending  the  tree  he  passed 
swiftly  toward  the  swamp  and  soon  found  the  cabin.  The 
old  woman  arose  as  he  entered.  With  one  glance  at  his 
changed  appearance  she  shook  her  head. 

Age  and  her  calling  had  brought  to  S.ilvy  great  skill 
and  judgment  in  forming  correct  conclusions.  This  man 
had  been  dead  for  years  to  the  family.  He  had  returned 
in  the  night  as  a  fugitive.  The  great  Marbeau  house  a  mile 
away,  was  open,  its  owner  still  there  and  the  nephew's 
room  was  probably  as  he  had  left  it;  but  he  had  come  to 
her  cabin,  a  negro's  cabin,  for  refuge.  He  had  come 
burning  with  the  memory  of  a  great  injustice.  Now, 
shaved  and  dressed  and  in  appearance  again  himself,  he 
returned  once  more.  And  in  his  eye  was  a  new  light. 

She  shook  her  head  over  the  problem  and  offered  him 
food.  He  turned  from  it. 

"I  have  eaten,"  he  said  simply. 

There  was  an  urgent  call  from  the  outside  and  she  went 
forth.  A  woman  desperately  ill  needed  medicine  and  she 
returned  and  procured  it.  Placing  it  in  the  visitor's  hand, 
she  said: 

"In  a  dream  to-night,  Silvy  saw  company  at  the  big 
house.  Her  eyes  are  dim  and  couldn't  find  their  faces. 
Who  there?"  The  negro  visitor  shrunk  back  slightly. 

"Young  Miss  come  back;  and  Marse  Dick." 

She  waved  her  hand  and  went  in.  Chilon  was  sitting 
lost  in  thought  over  the  scenes  from  which  he  had  re- 
turned and  she  forebore  to  disturb  him.  But  when  he 
rose  to  seek  his  couch,  he  found  her  standing  and  regard- 
ing him,  her  strange,  wild  eyes  now  flashing  with  some  of 
their  oldtime  fire. 

"You  seen  her?"  she  said,  simply. 


"I  KNOW  WHERE  TO  FIND  IT."  '  71 

"Who?"     Her  face  took  on  its  look  of  cunning. 

"An'  you  seen  him!"  He  was  amazed  beyond  expres- 
sion. "He  would  kill  you,"  she  said.  "The  snake  in  the 
weeds  ain't  as  bad!" 

"Whom  are  you  talking  about,  mammy?" 

"I  am  talkin'  bout  him;  de  man  what  steal  your  wife 
while  you  gone!  He  would  kill  you." 

"We  shall  see!"  he  said,  roused  again  to  sudden  fury. 
"We  shall  see!"  She  took  from  the  crevice  in  the  chim- 
ney her  long,  keen  knife  and  offered  it  to  him.  He  shud- 
dered at  sight  of  it  in  her  claw-like  fingers  and  shook  his 
head. 

"Put  it  back,"  he  said,  "I  know  where  to  find  it."  And 
then,  noting  her  excitement:  "You  evidently  do  not 
love  the  man?" 

She  reached  her  hand  over  her  shoulder  and  touched 
the  hidden  wound. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed.     "Did  he  strike  the  blow?" 

But  she  had  gone  to  her  couch.  Presently  she  began 
her  queer  chant,  her  voice  at  times  rising  to  a  pitch  of  ex- 
citement that  made  his  flesh  creep.  So  sang  the  wild 
savage,  he  had  heard,  when  war  was  at  hand. 

This  passed.  Over  him  came  the  shadow  of  his  great 
misfortune.  Lena  was  lost  to  him  forever.  Nothing 
could  alter,  could  lessen  that  fact.  He  arose  and  plunged 
out  into  the  night,  to  come  at  dawn  and  sink  exhausted 
upon  his  couch  again. 


72  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
WHERE  LOVE  AND  SORROW  MEET. 

Chilon  could  scarcely  restrain  his  impatience  when  at 
noon  he  opened  his  eyes  again.  The  hours  wore  away 
slowly,  tediously.  There  was  nothing  to  divert  his  mind ; 
the  song  of  the  mocking  bird  outside,  the  chatter  of  noisy 
jays  in  the  water  oaks  and  the  pert  challenge  of  the  squir- 
rel had  no  power  to  amuse  him.  From  over  the  hill 
came  the  sweet  melody  of  negroes  at  work  in  the  fields, 
but  the  hymn  once  so  familiar  was  harsh  and  hateful 
now.  His  mind,  depressed  at  one  moment  over  its  tra- 
gedy, the  next  exulted  over  the  realization  that,  after  all, 
one  being  in  the  world  still  loved  and  trusted  him,  was 
incapable  of  outside  impressions.  Thought  is  the  finest 
voice  in  nature,  and  that  mind  must  be  at  rest  when  the 
chatter  of  her  many  children  fall  sweetly  within  it. 

He  saw  the  slow  sun  descend  from  the  zenith,  the  shad- 
ows grow  long  upon  the  hillside,  and  fireflies  begin  to 
twinkle  in  the  darkening  swamp.  Then  came  the  black- 
ness of  night  and  with  it  freedom.  He  did  not  wait  for 
midnight.  He  found  a  position  from  which  he  could 
view  the  house,  and  waited  hour  after  hour.  He  saw 
Lena  in  fancy  with  his  uncle  in  the  library,  talking  over 
the  events  of  the  past,  and  plans  for  the  future.  Per- 
haps in  those  moments  of  confidence  they  again  spoke  of 
him, — of  him,  the  fugitive  hiding  in  the  dark,  waiting 
with  hungry  heart  for  his  brief  hours  of  happiness. 

It  came  at  last;  his  star  arose  in  the  night  and  shone 
with  resplendent  beauty  above  him.  With  a  glad  cry 
he  sprung  forward,  swung  himself  up  through  the  cedar 
to  the  roof  and  passed  into  the  house.  The  hallway  was 
dark,  but  he  knew  every  inch  of  the  way.  His  hand  found 
the  door,  closed,  but  not  latched,  and  in  a  moment  more 
he  was  inside.  She  came  to  him  quickly  and  his  arms  en- 
circled her.  The  hour  was  too  sacred  for  word?.  He  led 


WHERE    LOVE    AND    SORROW   MEET.  73 

her  to  a  chair,  and  seating  himself  at  her  knee  heard 
over  and  over  again  the  pledge,  "I  love  you  only."  With 
loverlike  persistency  he  made  her  swear  it  with  lifted 
hand,  and  looking  into  her  brown  eyes,  frank  with  truth 
and  limpid  with  tenderness,  he  believed  her  and  was 
happy.  But  ever  and  anon  some  word  of  her  city  life 
would  slip  in,  bringing  with  it  a  tumult  of  unavailing 
regrets,  of  jealous  fears  and  fierce  anger  moving  him  to 
such  extremes  that  she  feared  his  self-control  would  be 
lost.  Never  then,  nor  afterwards,  could  he  endure  from 
her  any  reference  to  her  husband,  however  remote ;  and  if 
she  spoke  of  any  duty  to  be  performed  at  home  it  filled 
him  with  anguish.  After  one  of  these  outbursts  he  ex- 
claimed passionately: 

"You  are  a  woman,  gentle,  refined  and  loving;  but  you 
despise  the  man  you  have  married.  It  is  your  duty  to 
tell  him  so  and  return  to  your  father's  home.  You  owe 
it  to  yourself.  God  has  given  you  a  nature,  a  soul,  a  life 
to  be  preserved,  to  be  kept  fresh  and  sweet;  you  brutalize 
it  when  you  submit  yourself  to  that  creature.  The  day 
will  come,  when  cold  and  hard,  and  insensible  to  the  finer 
feelings  of  life,  you  will  wake  to  the  realization  that  the 
best  part  of  you  is  already  dead.  Is  the  girl  I  loved  dead 
indeed?''  And  she  would  calm  him  with  a  gentle  touch 
that  was  irresistible. 

"No,"  she  said  softly,  "she  is  not  dead,  Chilon.  She 
lives  and  loves  you;  and  she  loves  her  child."  She  shook 
her  head  sadly.  "If  it  had  not  been  for  her,  I  would  have 
died.  If  it  were  not  for  her,  I  would  come  home!" 

Again,  he  would  rise  to  his  knees  and  clasping  her  to 
him  with  passionate  force  implore  her  to  promise  him, 
when  he  had  made  a  home  for  them,  to  come  back  to 
him. 

"Divorce  is  easy,"  he  cried,  "mere  incompatibility  is 
sufficient.  It  will  be  a  week's  wonder  and  then  forgot- 
ten!" But  she  only  shook  her  head  sadly,  drying  her 
eyes  with  pathetic  calmness.  At  length,  overcome  with 


74  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

the  strength  of  his  pleadings,  her  heart  stirred  to  sudden 
rebellion  against  fate,  she  said  with  proud  vehemence: 

"Yes,  Chilon,  I  will!  When  you  have  won  back  your 
name  and  are  free.  I  will  come  to  you.  I  could  not 
bring  my  child  to  less.  You  could  not  ask  it!  Prove  to 
the  world,  to  my  father,  that  you  are  innocent — you  are 
innocent  and  proof  can  be  had — some  way, — prove  it  and 
I  will  come  back  to  you!"  He  could  not  at  first  reply, 
for  the  flood  of  feelings  that  came  over  him. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  asked,  almost  in  awe.  "You 
would  not  deceive  me  in  such  an  hour,  Lena?" 

"Have  I  ever  deceived  you,  Chilon?  No!  And  I  never 
shall !  My  husband  knows  that  I  love  your  memory  bet- 
ter than  all  else  in  life.  It  would  not  be  news  to  him." 

"But  to  think,"  he  said,  "in  all  the  years  to  come  while 
I  search  and  labor,  to  lie  awake  and  think  of  his  arms 
about  you,  his  lips  touching  yours, — I  cannot!  I  cannot!" 
She  bowed  her  head  in  silence. 

"I  cannot  understand  it!"  he  raved,  pacing  the  floor. 
"I  cannot  understand  such  surrender!  Men  have  de- 
spised the  wanton  woman  in  all  ages,  and  none  more  than 
those  of  this  age  who  take  pay  in  carriages,  and  jewels 
and  clothing — riding  the  streets  to  advertise  their  shame ! 
For  believe  me,  believe  me,  a  woman  may  deceive  herself, 
but  she  cannot  deceive  the  world.  The  world  knows 
when  she  does  and  when  she  does  not  love  the  man  who 
supports  her,  and  people  laugh  over  the  situation  and  in 
secret  take  her  name  in  vain.  I  can  pity  and  even  respect 
the  woman  whose  necessities  drive  her  to  ruin, — but  the 
others!  They  are  below  even  the  notice  of, — a  convict!" 
He  paused  abashed,  amazed  at  his  own  words.  He  knelt 
by  her  side  and  took  her  hands  again.  "Forgive  me,  for- 
give me,"  he  said,  "I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying!" 

"Therefore  it  came  honest  from  your  heart!"  she  an- 
swered sadly.  "Had  you  known,  you  would  have  spared 
me — spared  yourself;  for  you  should  utter  no  reproach, 
Chilon;  but  no,  I  will  spare  you."  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands;  she  had  not  spared  him.  "You  have  not 


WHERE    LOVE    AND    SORROW   MEET.  75 

told  all,  not  all.  Who  is  most  likely  in  all  the  world  to 
make  a  mistake?  I  think  it  is  the  girl,  Chilon!  Her 
strength  is  in  her  weakness  and  her  weakness  is  her  glory ; 
because  she  is  strongest  in  her  power  to  love  and  weakest 
when  she  does  love.  And  love  is  the  glory  of  woman- 
hood! Oh,  Chilon,  you  see  only  the  man's  side.  You 
should  see  twenty-four  hours  of  the  life  of  a  woman  sit- 
uated as  I  am.  You  would  not  blame  me;  you  would 
pity  me,  you  would  save  me,  you  would  not  tempt  me! 
Do  you  not  know  that  I  am  crushing  my  own  heart  every 
minute;  that  if  I  yielded  to  my  heart  I  would  go  out  of 
this  house  to-night  with  you  anywhere  you  might  choose, 
to  share  your  fate,  your  labor,  your  danger;  that  I  would 
work  for  you  by  night  or  day ;  would  be  anything,  every- 
thing, to  you?  That  is  the  impulse  I  am  fighting  every 
minute.  Help  me,  Chilon;  help  me  to  remember!  I 
am  the  woman  and  you  the  man.  You  should  be  strong 
enough  for  both.  You  boast  that  you  would  protect  me, 
you  swore  you  would!  Protect  me  against  myself!"  She 
was  again  wringing  her  hands.  "Do  not — oh,  do  not — 
I  implore  you — make  it  so  hard,  so  hard  for  me!"  Shame 
and  remorse  overwhelmed  him  for  the  moment. 

"Here  is  your  father's  house "  he  began. 

"And  you!'  she  answered,  shaking  her  head.  He 
looked  down  upon  her  with  quick  comprehension. 

"You  mean  that  you  cannot  come  because  I  have  re- 
turned!" She  would  not  answer.  "Then,"  he  said 
sadly,  "I  shall  help  you,  Lena.  To-morrow  I  go  for- 
ever." 

"No!  no!  no!  Not  yet,  Chilon,  not  yet.  It  has  been 
so  long;  it  will  be  so  long  again.  Don't  go  yet,  not  yet!" 

"You  wish  me  to  stay?"  he  cried,  gladness  in  every 
feature  and  tone  of  voice. 

"Yes.  Because  I  know  you  will  pity  me.  You  will 
protect  me!"  And  presently  as  he  held  her  hands  tightly: 
"No;  it  is  best  that  you  go,  Chilon;  it  is  best!  But  not 
now;  wait  a  little  while,  my  life,  my  love.  Let  me  see 
your  dear  face  again.  Come  to  me;  it  must  soon  end. 


76  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

Then  you  will  go  to  clear  your  name  and  make  a  home 
for  me.  You  will,  will  you  not?  You  will  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  find  your  good  name  again  and  wear  it  with 
honor  and  pride." 

These  passionate  outbursts  brought  for  the  moment  ex- 
ultant happiness. 

But  always  the  shadow  came  back.  She  was  to  re- 
turn to  that  other  man,  and  take  up  her  old  life;  and  the 
months,  years  perhaps,  were  to  slip  by.  When  she  came 
back  to  him  some  day,  it  would  be  with  all  freshness,  all 
sweetness  gone;  not  the  girl  he  had  loved,  but  a  woman 
of  the  world.  The  girl  he  had  loved  would  have  per- 
ished. Had  she  already  perished?  Would  the  proud, 
high-minded  girl  that  dared  all  for  him  at  seventeen,  de- 
fied father  and  friends  and  kindred — would  she,  if  she 
were  living,  hesitate?  No!  She  would  leave  even  the 
child  itself  for  him. 

Something  of  this  burst  from  him  in  his  agony.  She 
shook  her  head. 

"The  girl  that  you  loved  is  not  dead;  but  she  is  a 
mother;  and  a  mother  must  sacrifice  everything,  if  neces- 
sary, for  her  child.  Yes,  if  the  child's  future  demands  it, 
if  shame  were  part  of  its  inheritance,  she  must  stand 
ready  to  sacrifice  even  a  mother's  rights  and  tear  her 
heart  out  by  the  roots.  Ah,  Chilon,  no  man  has  ever 
known  any  woman !  I  am  true  to  you  when  I  am  true  to 
myself!" 

"If  you  were  true  to  yourself  you  would  not  be  the 
wife  of  Richard  Marbeau!" 

"And  I  am  not!"  she  said  proudly.  "You  have  forgot- 
ten soon!  I  am  waiting — a  sacrifice  to  the  laws  of  so- 
ciety— the  victim  of  civilization."  He  bent  over  her 
hand. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  said.  "Forgive  my  words.  I  think 
that  suffering  has  already  crazed  me.  I  take  your  last 
words  as  a  pledge,  sacred  as  that  you  gave  to  me  in  the 
presence  of  God.  It  makes  me  happy;  happier  than  I 
believed  I  might  ever  again  be.  I  shall  go  out  to  begin 


WHERE    LOVE    AND    SORROW   MEET.  77 

my  work  with  a  light  heart,  fearing  no  failure.  I  cannot 
fail  now!" 

He  was  radiant  and  triumphant  and  she  smiled  wist- 
fully to  see  him  so  happy. 

"I  believe  that  you  love  me,"  she  said  simply.  For 
reply  he  knelt,  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms  again  and 
pressed  his  burning  kisses  upon  her  lips,  her  cheeks,  her 
brow,  her  eyes. 

Out  toward  the  west  a  crown  of  jewels  overhung  the 
city,  and  silence,  broken  only  by  the  rhythmic  pulse  in 
the  valley  and  the  monotone  of  the  waterfall,  enveloped 
the  scene. 

Slowly  the  beautiful  stars  of  heaven  sank  toward  the 
horizon.  It  was  no  new  sight  for  them — a  man  and 
woman  in  the  grasp  of  a  power  as  strong  as  that  which 
held  themselves  in  place.  And  God  made  all! 

With  the  morn  they  would  pass  away  from  view  and 
the  sun  would  tempt  into  the  open  again  the  crafty,  the 
lying,  the  hypocritical,  the  false  and  vicious — serpents 
that  bask  in  its  heat — lives  that  curse  life  and  make  hope 
a  mockery. 

But  the  star  will  come  again,  and  love  is  immortal. 
One  holds  the  lost  light  of  a  vanished  sun;  the  other  is 
the  light  of  God's  own  smile  upon  the  soul,  that  shining 
once,  shines  on  through  all  eternity. 


78  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  FATAL  LETTER. 

But  Chilon  did  not  go  that  week  nor  the  next,  nor  the 
next  thereafter.  He  thought  to  go.  He  said  to  her  sad- 
ly each  time  that  she  returned  to  the  city:  "When  you 
come  again  I  shall  say  'farewell.' "  And  when  she  came 
he  would  go  to  sit  at  her  feet  and  tell  her  of  his  love  and 
make  her  swear  her  faith  unchanged,  over  and  over. 

And  she,  the  woman;  she  could  not  send  him  away 
into  the  world;  nor  could  she  resist  his  appeals  to  come 
again. 

For  he  had  found  a  way  to  communicate  with  her. 
Love  always  finds  a  way!  Coming  back  at  daylight  one 
morning  from  an  expedition  down  the  river,  he  crossed  a 
public  road  and  saw  a  postman  taking  letters  from  a  little 
home-made  box  nailed  to  a  tree.  The  carrier  rode  daily 
from  points  below  and  this  impromptu  arrangement  was 
a  mere  matter  of  convenience  to  the  neighborhood,  it  be- 
ing well  understood  that  no  valuable  letters  would  be 
posted  at  that  point.  He  made  the  discovery  with  great 
delight  and  immediately  utilized  it.  With  his  uncle's  sta- 
tionery and  postage  stamps  at  hand  it  was  an  easy  matter. 

And  it  was  soon  arranged  between  them  that  answers 
to  his  letters  would  be  left  in  the  cavity  of  a  certain  syca- 
more near  the  house ;  for  it  often  happened  that  she  could 
ride  out  during  the  day  when  circumstances  prevented 
her  staying  over  night. 

Into  these  letters  he  poured  his  passion  without  re- 
straint, addressing  them  to  her  number  and  street,  leaving 
all  unsigned  for  safety ;  and  in  her  absence  from  the  house 
it  gave  employment  for  his  thoughts.  And  he  could  look 
forward  to  her  answers. 

But  she  came  often;  so  often  that  the  colonel  grew 
almost  young  again  in  his  pleasure. 

"Your  roses  are  coming  back  at  last,"  he  said,  pat- 


THE  FATAL  LETTER.  79 

ting  her  cheek;  and  then  they  bloomed  in  reality.  Her 
step  grew  quicker  and  eye  brighter.  Love  long  delayed 
and  baffled  held  her  in  his  grasp.  But  she  wore  his  flow- 
ers, not  his  chains,  and  carried  her  head  proudly. 

Constant  risk  made  Chilon  careless.  The  heat  of  sum- 
mer was  at  hand  and  the  cabin  in  its  low  situation  was 
exposed  to  mosquitoes.  He  suffered  greatly  from  them. 
The  time  came  when  an  unused  room  upstairs  at  Ravens- 
wood  was  in  a  measure  fitted  up  for  him,  and  there,  in- 
stead of  seeking  his  old  quarters  when  the  hour  of  parting 
arrived,  he  would  retreat,  getting  glimpses  of  the  woman 
he  loved  during  the  day,  and  supplied  with  food  surrep- 
titiously. These  stolen  moments  gave  a  zest  to  life  that 
was  new  to  him;  and  her  companionship  made  him  de- 
liriously happy.  Necessarily  the  care  of  the  room  fell 
to  her  also,  and  the  knowledge  of  her  gentle  ministry  and 
solicitude  brought  him  still  greater  happiness.  Grad- 
ually, from  her  own  purse  she  had  supplied  him  with  all 
that  he  needed,  and  he  no  longer  felt  the  discomforts  of 
want. 

It  was  a  summer  idyl,  too  beautiful  to  last.  The  end 
came  in  a  way  they  had  not  dreamed.  The  blow  fell  with 
crushing  force,  and  in  one  brief  moment  all  of  sweetness 
went  out  of  life. 

She  had  been  absent  from  Ravenswood  a  week  with 
her  child,  who  was  ill,  and  everything  else  gave  place  to 
this  demand.  The  life  Chilon  was  leading,  exposure  to  the 
swamp  air  by  night,  irregular  and  often  improper  food 
and  the  constant  mental  excitement,  told  upon  him.  For 
a  few  days  he  resisted  the  encroachment  of  the  enemy 
and  during  that  time,  depressed  and  lonely,  he  wrote  a 
letter  that  should  have  gone  straight  to  her  hands  and 
then  to  the  flames. 

It  reached  neither.  And  night  after  night  Chilon  vain- 
ly searched  for  her  light  and  her  letter  in  the  old  familiar 
places.  At  length  he  succumbed  to  the  fever,  raving  in 
his  delirium  of  her  falseness  and  neglect. 

Richard  Marbeau's  mind  was  fertile  ground  for  sus- 


8o  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

picions.  Engrossed  in  important  court  cases  he  had  only 
noticed  that  his  wife  had  grown  younger  and  brighter  and 
that  in  her  manner  toward  him,  even,  there  was  a  shade  of 
cordiality  not  before  known.  He  noticed  also  that  her  fond- 
ness for  Ravenswood  increased,  and  last  of  all,  that  when 
going  to  spend  the  night  there,  always  she  left  the  little 
girl  at  home.  These  points  came  to  him  gradually,  and 
finally  he  grew  suspicious.  But  try  as  he  might,  he  could 
not  suggest  a  satisfactory  explanation.  So  many  years 
had  passed  since  Chilon's  departure  and  so  firmly  was  he, 
himself,  fixed  in  his  possession,  he  did  not  dream  of  dan- 
ger in  that  direction.  At  first,  remembering  the  will, 
Lena's  visits  had  pleased  him,  but  the  suspicions  came 
and  stayed  with  him.  Several  times  he  had  followed  her 
out  to  Ravenswood  and  watched  her  closely,  but  to  no 
effect.  She  was  the  same  in  her  uncle's  library  as  at  home. 
And  this  was  natural,  since  she  had  but  to  place  the  light 
in  a  certain  window  of  her  room  to  warn  Chilon. 

And  she  never  for  a  moment  left  the  man  who  claimed 
her  while  he  was  at  Ravenswood. 

And  she  always  went  back  to  the  city  with  him,  her 
only  exhibitions  of  nervousness  being  that  drive  home- 
ward. 

On  these  occasions  Chilon  walked  the  grove  outside, 
consumed  with  jealous  rage. 

The  climax  came  during  the  little  girl's  convalescence. 
Richard  had  returned  to  the  house  from  his  office.  At 
the  door,  as  he  entered,  the  postman  handed  him  a  letter. 
The  half-familiar  handwriting,  the  local  stamp,  filled  him 
with  curiosity,  and  his  suspicions  returned  with  renewed 
force.  No  one  had  seen  him  receive  it;  he  placed  it  in 
his  pocket.  When  back  again  within  his  office,  he  opened 
and  read  the  foolish,  fatal  epistle,  and  knew  that  it  came 
from  Chilon. 

"Why  have  you  deserted  me,"  it  read.  "Night  after 
night  I  have  waited  and  watched  for  you,  imagining  a 
thousand  evils  and  distressed  beyond  expression.  Lena, 
it  is  inconceivable  that  you  should  treat  me  so  cruelly.  I 


THE  FATAL  LETTER.  8l 

have  been  tempted  over  and  again  to  take  my  departure 
without  waiting  for  you.  I  am  haunted  with  the  thought, 
always,  that  you  no  longer  love  Chilon ;  that  you  pity  him 
and  you  cannot  break  all  the  old  ties ;  that  while  with  me 
you  do  love  me,  but  when  you  go  back  to  your  old  life 
you  wish  that  this  were  ended  and  you  might  be  left  alone. 
Oh,  Lena,  why  are  you  not  frank  and  open  with  me? 
There  is  something  behind  it  all,  something  that  you  have 
never  told  to  me. 

"Last  night  I  went  to  your  room ;  the  light  was  not  at 
the  window,  but  I  entered  the  house  anyway,  thinking 
that  perhaps  there  might  be  some  mistake.  I  went  to  your 
room;  it  was  as  you  had  left  it;  but  its  glory  had  departed. 
Oh,  love,  come  back  to  me;  my  heart  cannot  stand  much 
more.  Laws  and  customs  were  made  by  men  for  their 
own  selfish  purposes ;  you  are  still  my  wife  in  the  sight  of 
heaven !  Life  anywhere  else  for  you  is  sin,  and  you  know 
it.  But  I  shall  not  urge  this  if  you  will  come.  I  shall  be 
satisfied  still  to  look  into  your  dear  eyes,  to  feel  your 
kisses  upon  my  lips,  your  hand  in  mine;  and  to  know 
that  then  at  least  you  do  love  me  and  me  alone.  Come 
back  and  save  me  from  myself.  I  cannot  endure  this  for 
many  days. 

"I  shall  look  for  your  light  Wednesday  night.  If  I  do 
not  find  it  then,  or  a  letter  in  the  old  place,  God  have 
mercy  upon  us  all!" 

Richard  Marbeau  had  never  loved  his  wife.  He  sim- 
ply valued  her.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  passions,  and 
the  greatest  of  these  were  greed  and  ambition ;  a  desire  for 
wealth  and  political  honors.  From  his  youth  he  had  un- 
derstood that  Lena  Marbeau  was  to  be  his  wife,  and  that 
Ravenswood,  with  all  its  traditions  and  loveliness  and 
with  wealth  to  back  it,  would  come  with  her.  This  meant 
high  social  position;  and  power  in  business  a'nd  political 
circles.  His  aspirations  had  already  been  partly  realized. 
It  was  current  gossip  in  advance  of  the  will,  an  accepted 
fact,  that  Colonel  Marbeau's  daughter  would  succeed  to 
his  property ;  and  if  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  be- 
6 


82  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

fore,  the  coming  sunrise  lights  the  east  in  advance.  Busi- 
ness came  to  him,  political  patronage  and  a  growing  in- 
fluence. It  was  accepted  that  he  was  "logically"  the  next 
Democratic  congressman  for  his  district. 

But  while  there  was  no  love  between  his  wife  and  him- 
self, he  was  nevertheless  capable  of  intense  jealousy.  He 
knew  her  superiority.  His  honor  was  at  stake,  and  loss 
of  this  meant  loss  of  power. 

And  his  fortune  also  was  at  stake. 

He  had  grown  cold  and  careless  at  home,  secretly  de- 
spising the  moods  of  the  woman  bound  to  him  by  law 
and  custom;  unsympathetic,  and,  in  his  total  lack  of  con- 
sideration, really  cruel.  His  selfish  nature,  his  insolent 
self-conceit,  were  totally  at  variance  with  all  the  char- 
acteristics that  she  possessed;  but  they  had  be,en,  in  a 
measure,  his  salvation.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  finer 
shades  of  a  woman's  love,  and  did  not  miss  them.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  a  defect  lay  in  him ;  his  mind 
had  never  risen  far  enough  above  the  petty  affairs  of  life 
to  become  conscious  that  there  was  a  broader  life  about 
him.  He  closed  the  door  upon  himself  when  he  per- 
petrated the  cruel  fraud  upon  his  cousin's  wife  and  built 
his  future  upon  a  lie. 

But  there  was  another  reason.  The  low  cunning  of 
the  man  showed  in  his  actions  when  he  had  read  this  let- 
ter. After  the  first  burst  of  astonishment  and  rage  that 
the  revelation  brought  to  him,  a  smile  overspread  his 
face 

"So,"  he  said,  "so,  my  pretty,  hightoned,  immaculate 
little  saint,  this  is  the  explanation!  Oh,  woman,  woman, 
there  is  no  limit  to  your  iniquity!  But  I  think  when  this 
matter  is  ended  your  wings  will  have  been  clipped."  The 
thought  that  came  to  him  was  not  one  of  pity;  it  was  a 
joyful  realization  that  at  length  he  had  her  in  his  power. 
He  knew  instinctively,  he  realized  from  the  letter;  indeed, 
he  had  never  doubted  but  that  his  wife  still  loved  and 
would  always  love  the  man  whom  he  had  wronged;  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him,  he  always  argued,  since  Chi- 


THE  FATAL  LETTER.  83 

Ion  had  robbed  him  first.  The  matter  had  not  reached 
the  irremediable  condition.  It  should  end  where  it  was. 
But  Lena  Marbeau  would  be  his  slave  from  that  day. 
Pride  would  bend  her  will,  and  he  held  the  proofs.  Tri- 
umph now  outweighed  all  other  feelings. 

But  did  he  hold  clear  proofs?  He  read  the  letter  over 
and  over.  It  contained  only  the  ravings  of  a  lover;  there 
was  no  proof  to  convict  the  woman.  Chilon  had  been 
her  husband;  he  was  yet  her  cousin.  Their  parting  had 
been  under  peculiar  circumstances,  and  it  was  natural 
that  she  should  be  kind  to  him,  especially  if  he  had  come 
back  in  want.  That  letter  was  her  defense,  if  read  closely. 

But  suppose  she  kept  the  proposed  appointment!  He 
looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  yet  time  to  catch  the  after- 
noon delivery.  Taking  a  plain  white  envelope,  similar  to 
that  which  he  had  opened,  he  enclosed  the  letter,  iftade  a 
creditable  imitation  of  the  address  and  rang  for  his  office 
boy  to  put  it  in  a  mail  box. 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  had  not  passed  from  his  lips 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  servant  brought  him  a  large 
square  envelope,  which  bore  his  name  in  the  angular  style 
of  fashionable  chirography.  Opening  it,  he  drew  forth 
the  inclosure  and  read: 


Dear  Dick:  What  has  become  of  you?  You  have  failed  me 
twice  and  I  am  uneasy.  What  has  transpired — anything  that 
affects  me?  Come  Wednesday  night  without  fail.  If  I  do  not 
hear  from  you,  I  shall  be  miserable  and  positively  frightened. 
Yours,  BIJOU. 

P.  S. — I  am  "broke"  again.    Better  send  me  a  check.      B. 

"Always  a  check,"  he  said  to  himself,  still  smiling. 
"Poor  little  schemers!"  He  wrote  hurriedly  upon  a  sheet 
of  paper,  tearing  off  the  business  head: 

Darling:  I  have  been  overwhelmed  with  work.  Child  very 
sick.  Ought  not  to  have  neglected  you,  but  thought  you  could 
trust  me.  My  checks  are  all  gone,  so  I  am  obliged  to  send 
bills,  which  I  hope  will  answer.  Can't  come  on  Wednesday 
night;  won't  be  in  the  city.  Yours  truly,  D. 


84  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

After  the  messenger  took  his  departure,  the  lawyer 
stood  watching  the  door.  A  queer  idea  had  come  to  him. 
"Suppose  by  any  chance  that  letter  should  fall  in  Lena's 
hands?"  so  ran  the  thought.  "It  is  different  with  men," 
he  answered,  and  with  a  slight  shrug  of  his  shoulders 
turned  to  his  desk. 

But  not  to  work.  Only  a  general  plan  had  been 
framed ;  the  details  were  still  to  be  worked  out. 

That  night  he  found  the  little  girl  at  her  music  in  the 
sitting  room,  the  wife  silent  and  thoughtful  by  the  win- 
dow. 

"Thinking  of  your  husband,  I  suppose?"  he  said  care- 
lessly, as  he  busied  himself  about  some  trivial  matter. 
She  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  then  away. 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply,  "I  believe  that  I  was." 

"Thanks,"  he  called  back  maliciously.  "I  do  not  dare 
to  ask  what  was  the  tenor  of  the  thought.  But  perhaps," 
he  said,  pausing  a  moment  to  deliver  the  pun,  ''there  was 
no  tenor  there — only  the  bass." 

The  little  girl  had  left  her  playthings  and  had  gone  to 
stand  by  her  mother's  side.  She  looked  toward  the  open 
door  a  moment,  then,  kissing  her,  resumed  her  play.  She 
had  felt  a  discord  somewhere. 


THE  HEART  OF  LENA  MARBEAU.       85 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  HEART  OF  LENA  MARBEAU. 

During  her  enforced  stay  at  home,  Lena  had  thought 
long  and  deeply  upon  her  situation  and  that  of  the  man 
she  now  knew  she  loved  more  than  life  itself.  His  con- 
dition appealed  to  her  at  all  hours  and  she  pictured  him 
going  regularly  for  the  letter  and  to  gaze  upon  her  win- 
dow. "He  will  understand,"  she  thought.  "It  cannot 
be  possible  that  he  will  doubt  me  now.  He  will  know 
that  some  insurmountable  obstacle  has  intervened  and 
that  I  will  come  when  I  can.  But  his  future!" 

She  knew  that  dissipation  was  a  family  weakness ;  more 
than  one  of  them  had  filled  drunkards'  graves,  and  Chi- 
lon's  ruin  had  sprung  from  drink.  He  possessed  that 
peculiar  nervous,  excitable  temperament  that  finds  in 
alcohol  its  support.  He  belonged  to  the  singular  class  of 
men  who,  in  the  hours  of  excitement  and  danger,  or  sud- 
den trouble,  when  the  heart  is  beating  fiercely  out  of  time 
and  the  brain  whirling,  crave  yet  more  stimulant;  for 
these  consume  a  vital  fluid  and  set  up  a  new  demand. 
With  Chilon,  she  knew  that  a  return  to  the  habit,  inter- 
rupted by  his  long  confinement,  meant  death,  perhaps 
family  ruin.  Something  must  be  done  for  him.  If  he 
went  out  into  the  world  upon  his  almost  hopeless  task, 
he  would  never  withstand  temptation.  She  read  it  in 
the  abandonment  of  self-control  which  she  had  already 
witnessed.  But  what  could  she  do?  Her  money  was  in 
the  control  of  her  husband;  she  could  not  get  it  without 
explanation.  And  if  Chilon  went,  he  must  have  money; 
she  would  not  permit  him  to  go  impoverished  and  with 
not  a  friend  to  help  him. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  afternoon  as  she  sat  by 
the  window.  Oh,  if  she  could  only  appeal  to  her  hus- 
band ;  if  there  were  in  him  nobility  and  generosity, — but 
no;  she  could  not  do  that.  Who,  then,  would  help  her? 


86  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"My  father,"  she  murmured  softly  at  last.  "He  is  a 
man — a  gentleman;  he  will  understand.  I  will  make  him 
understand.  He  owes  me  something.  He  has  spoken  of 
Chilon  kindly;  I  think  he  will  be  glad.  And,  oh,  if  he 
gives  his  full  aid,  all  will  be  well!" 

The  thought  made  her  happier  than  she  had  been  in 
many  a  day. 

A  servant  brought  her  a  letter,  and  she  looked  to  the 
handwriting.  It  was  like,  and  yet  unlike,  Chilon's.  What 
was  the  matter?  She  studied  it  long,  after  the  fashion  of 
woman,  and  then  broke  the  seal.  Her  eyes  overflowed 
with  tears  as  she  read  the  lines. 

"My  poor  boy,"  she  said.  "How  he  must  suffer.  Sick! 
Oh,  God,  Chilon  sick — alone  in  that  cabin — no  comforts 
—no  nurse, — only  that  half-demented  old  woman !  Chi- 
lon sick  and  calling  for  me." 

She  almost  cried  out  in  her  sudden  pain.  But  no,  he 
says  that  he  will  come  Wednesday  night — day  after  to- 
morrow! He  has  left  me  a  day  for  preparations.  Yes, 
Chilon,  I  shall  come!  I  shall  come  if  it  wrecks  the  life  of 
your  Lena!  A  woman's  highest  duty  is  to  the  man  she 
loves.  She  must  not  give  him  up  to  despair!  No  one 
will  stop  me.  Let  no  one  dare  to  stop  me!" 

Her  excitement  attracted  the  little  girl. 

"What  is  it,  mamma?"  she  asked;  "are  you  ill, 
mamma?" 

"No,  my  baby; — not  ill!  I  am  simply — tired!" 

"Good  mamma!  Sweet  mamma!"  The  little  one  came 
and  put  up  her  arms. 

"Do  you  think  so,  sweetheart?  Do  you  think  mamma 
is  good?" 

"Are  you  not  good,  mamma?"  The  little  eyes  opened 
wide. 

"I  don't  know;  I  don't  know,  my  precious!  I  hope  so. 
God  alone  knows !  But  I  try  to  be." 

She  sent  the  child  to  play  again.  She  was  studying  the 
address  of  the  letter,  and  wondering  if  the  forced 
style  proved  that  Chilon  was  indeed  ill,  when  she  heard 


THE  HEART  OF  LENA  MARBEAU.       87 

her  husband's  step.  In  a  moment  she  was  herself  again, 
the  little  weakness  which  attacks  so  many  lonely  women 
at  twilight,  gone. 

Chilon  must  have  help;  her  father  must  furnish  it;  but 
how  reach  him?  And  would  Chilon  be  angry  with  her 
if  she  told  his  secret?  Oh,  for  a  woman's  love  and  sym- 
pathy ! 

It  came  to  her  then,  as  a  revelation,  that  the  friend 
she  needed  now  was  Celeste,  her  sister-in-law.  But  she 
would  consult  Chilon  first.  They  could  trust  her  to  give 
her  aid  and  counsel  without  ever  asking  a  question.  The 
setret  would  be  safe  with  her.  Who,  next  to  herself, 
would  have  his  interest  at  heart  more  than  his  only  sister? 

Her  plan  rapidly  shaped  itself.  She  would  go  boldly 
to  Ravenswood  and  effect  a  reconciliation.  If  she  could 
succeed  in  this  and  get  Celeste  over  for  the  night  she 
might  put  her  in  the  room  that  had  been  fixed  for  Chilon, 
and  when  he  came,  unfold  the  plan  and  get  his  consent. 
Then  Celeste  might  be  brought  in,  and  her  cool  judgment 
would  clear  away  the  difficulties. 

She  ordered  out  her  pony  carriage  early  on  Wednes- 
day, and  with  injunctions  of  more  than  usual  minuteness 
to  the  old  nurse,  who  had  followed  her  from  Ravens- 
wood,  set  out  for  the  country.  Her  husband  saw  her  go, 
a  sardonic  smile  upon  his  face,  and  went  calmly  to  his 
office. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  morning,  full  of  the  odors 
of  pines  and  wild  flowers,  and  the  songs  of  the  mocking 
birds.  Overhead  were  the  blue  skies,  with  here  and  there 
a  thin  cloud  afloat  like  the  lost  veil  of  a  bride.  Her  heart 
beat  hopefully.  She  had  now  a  definite  plan  in  mind  at 
last,  something  to  take  hold  upon,  to  cling  unto;  a  new 
object  in  life.  She  saw  in  fancy  the  mists  cleared  away 
from  Chilon's  future,  and  he  vindicated  and  established 
somewhere.  She  imagined  his  letters  coming  to  her  full 
of  hope  and  love  and  thankfulness,  and  then, —  some  day 
— perhaps  life  might  become  unbearable — she  and  her 
husband  might  agree  for  once,  agree  to  disagree ;  and  she 


88  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

would  be  free.  Would  Chilon  love  her  then  as  now? 
Would  he?  Yes,  she  was  sure  of  it. 

The  little  mare  skimmed  the  hard  clay  roads  and  the 
wheels  sang  merrily  underneath.  She  found  herself  sing- 
ing also,  a  little  melody  of  long  ago.  She  laughed  over 
the  discovery,  she,  Lena  Marbeau,  singing!  The  mare 
turned  under  a  shaded  avenue  and  soon  paused  at  the  lit- 
tle gate  in  front  of  the  Ravenswood  mansion.  The  glad 
old  man  came  down  the  walk  and  took  the  young  woman 
in  his  arms.  In  after  years  he  thought  often  of  that 
morning,  the  brightness  of  her  eye  and  the  color  upon 
her  cheeks. 

"I  was  afraid  you  had  deserted  me,  my  child.  I  was 
about  to  send  in 

"Little  Lena  has  been  ill,  papa;  but  she  is  well  now.  I 
came  as  soon  as  I  could.  Are  you  well — quite  well?" 

"Quite.  Even  an  old  soldier,  full  of  wounds,  must 
acknowledge  the  compliments  of  such  a  season  as  this 
and  keep  himself  in  harmony  with  nature.  Look  up  and 
around,"  he  said,  "does  it  not  seem  that  all  the  world 
should  be  at  peace  on  such  a  day?  If  I  have  enemies  I 
pray  their  mercy,"  he  continued  gaily,  as  he  led  her  in. 

"And  if  there  are  those  to  whom  you  are  an  enemy?'' 
she  said,  smiling. 

"I  forgive  them  all.  I  want  to  be  at  peace  to-day.  Let 
us  sit  here  upon  the  porch ;  it  is  too  good  to  go  inside  the 
house.  Did  you  bring  the  morning  paper?  Our  mail 
doesn't  come  until  noon,  you  remember." 

"Yes,  here  it  is.  Papa,  Uncle  Francis  was  your  fav- 
orite brother,  wasn't  he?" 

"Yes.     But  what  are  you  thinking  of  now?" 

"Wasn't  he  killed  at  Gettysburg  on  just  such  a  day  as 
this?  Do  you  mind  telling  me  about  it  again?  It  has 
been  so  long  since  I  heard  it.  He  must  have  been  very 
brave;  and  his  picture  is  so  good-looking." 

"Just  such  a  day,"  he  said,  sadly.  Then  his  eye  kindled 
as  memory  brought  the  scene.  "We  of  Pickett's  brigade 
lay  waiting  for  the  word  to  charge.  All  the  morning  we 


THE  HEART  OF  LENA  MARBEAU.       89 

had  listened  for  the  command,  and  overhead  thundered 
the  shot  and  shell  of  all  our  artillery,  focused  on  the 
heights  before  us.  Then  our  ammunition  died  out  and 
our  general  rode  to  Longstreet.  I  learned  afterwards 
that  he  said:  'General,  shall  I  charge?' 

"Longstreet,  who  felt  in  advance  the  coming  disaster, 
turned  away  his  face  and  was  silent. 

"  'Then  I  charge,'  said  Pickett,  and  rode  away. 

"I  think  the  world  must  have  held  its  breath  that  day. 
It  was  the  crest  of  the  war  wave  that  had  been  rolling 
higher  and  higher  for  years,  and  it  broke  over  that  hill 
with  a  shock  that  shook  the  earth  and  sent  a  thrill  to  the 
heart  of  civilization.  Amid  the  wreck,  the  drift  that  lay 
beyond  the  enemies'  guns,  was  your  Uncle  Frank." 

The  old  man  was  silent,  his  head  bowed. 

"He  sent  you  a  message,  papa.     Do  you  remember  it?" 

Her  lips  were  white  and  trembling  now. 

"Yes.  To  Robert  Aubren,  now  your  Cousin  Robert, 
he  gave  his  sword  as  he,  also  wounded,  came  staggering 
by  him.  'Tell  Charles,'  he  said,  'to  keep  my  sword  and 
my  children  from  dishonor.'  Child,  child!  what  would 
you  have?" 

He  had  caught  sight  of  her  agitated  face. 

"Oh,  papa,  this:  Let  us  lea.ve  Chilon  out,  now;  but 
Celeste!  Papa,  I  want  you  to  take  her  back  to  your  heart; 
love  her,  let  her  come  to  you !  We  are  so  few,  now,  papa, 
and  time  is  passing.  Just  say  the  word;  there  will  be  no 
scene,  no  explanations.  She  will  come.  What  was  it 
you  said,  papa  dear,  just  now,  about  forgiveness  and 
peace?  Did  you  mean  it?" 

Who  could  resist  the  appeal  of  those  eyes;^that  frank, 
loving,  tender  face;  that  voice,  the  incarnation  of  melody. 
Not  he. 

"I  meant  it,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
entrapped  me.  Frank's  child  shall  come  and  be  wel- 
come." She  threw  herself  into  his  arms  and  kissed  him. 
It  was  so  much  like  the  olden  way  that  he  trembled  with 
delight. 


90  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Stay  here,"  she  said,  running  away  from  him.  "I  am 
going  right  over  and  tell  her.  And,  papa,  you  do  not 
understand  me  now,  but  some  day  you  will  think  that 
God  put  it  into  your  heart  to  be  kind  to  the  best  woman 
He  has  let  live  on  earth." 

"I  am  glad  now,"  he  called  to  her,  "that  He  sent  the 
message  by  one  of  His  angels." 

She  waved  her  hand  to  him  in  reply. 

The  little  mare  sped  away,  her  pace,  for  the  first  time, 
stimulated  by  the  whip. 

Taking  a  little  by-road,  the  young  woman  paused  be- 
fore an  ancient  tree  and  opened  a  note  she  had  carried  in 
her  bosom.  It  read: 

"Have  been  kept  at  home  by  Lena's  illness.  Will  remain  to- 
night at  Ravenswood.  With  kisses,  lovingly,  L." 

She  thrust  it  into  the  hollow  of  the  tree,  under  a  stone 
left  there,  and  resumed  her  journey.  Long  afterwards, 
passing  the  spot,  she  found  it  blackened  and  undeciphera- 
ble, all  except  the  words,  "with  kisses,  lovingly,  L.,"  and 
placed  it  again  in  her  bosom. 


LENA  AT  ROSE  COTTAGE.         91 

CHAPTER  XX. 
LENA  AT  ROSE  COTTAGE. 

The  young  woman  drove  rapidly  three  miles,  crossed 
the  Ravenswood  line  and  turned  her  mare  into  the  well- 
kept  road  that  circled  among  the  hollies  and  dogwoods 
and  broadened  before  a  picturesque  cottage  nestling 
between  two  giant  magnolias.  Clematis  climbed 
in  and  out  through  a  great  Lamarque  rose  that, 
beginning  at  the  corner  of  the  low  veranda,  had  traveled 
its  whole  length,  letting  down,  among  the  purple  discs  of 
the  vine,  its  clusters  of  white  blossoms.  Beds  of  gerani- 
ums, scarlet  and  salmon,  blazed  under  the  morning  sky, 
and  giant  sunflowers,  overrun  with  morning  glories,  nod- 
ded in  the  new-found  sunlight,  a  mass  of  blue  and  gold. 
In  the  dark  green  of  the  magnolias  shone  the  immense 
and  snowy  blossoms,  and,  as  if  nature  had  not  been  prodi- 
gal of  tints  and  hues  already,  a  peacock,  for  the  moment, 
startled  by  the  new  arrival,  spread  his  wonderful  feathers 
and  stood  on  exhibition. 

Into  the  life  that  had  planned  all  this  loveliness  must 
have  come  some  wonderful  harmony,  for  beauty  is  never 
an  accident. 

As  Lena  tied  her  horse  and  entered,  a  little  boy  came 
out  of  the  hallway  and  stood  waiting  for  her — a  slender, 
dark-haired  little  fellow,  with  a  complexion  like  a  nun's, 
and  brown  eyes  that  held  a  strange  lambent  flame.  She 
knelt  quickly  and  took  him  in  her  arms,  pressing  him 
again  and  again  to  her  bosom.  A  smile  overspread  his 
face,  a  happy  little  glint  of  moonshine. 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me,  Chilon?"  she  asked,  hold- 
ing him  at  arm's  length. 

"Yes,  Aunty,"  he  said,  "I  am  always  glad  to  see  you." 
A  wistful  smile  lingered  upon  his  lips  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing her.  She  caught  him  to  her  breast  again  and  the 


92  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

eyes  that  closed  above  him  closed  over  the  gathering 
tears. 

"See,  what  aunty  has  brought  you,"  she  said  quickly, — 
"come  to  the  carriage."  She  turned  her  face  from  him 
suddenly  and  drew  him  with  her.  The  package  taken 
from  under  the  seat  was  large. 

"Now,  guess  what  it  is!"  Smiling  down  into  his  grave 
little  face  she  held  it  out  of  reach. 

"A  book,"  he  said. 

"Wouldn't  you  wish  it  something  else,  Chilon, — mar- 
bles— a  game — toys — ?"  He  shook  his  head.  "Nothing 
but  books,  books,  books!  Well,  a  book  it  is;  and  such  a 
book!"  They  went  and  sat  upon  the  steps  and  she  took 
out  not  one  but  three  volumes.  "See,  here  are  your 
friends,  the  flowers,"  she  said,  pitching  her  voice  in  that 
confidential  tone  so  thrilling  to  eager  little  ears,  "all  in 
their  own  colors,  with  their  every-day  and  Sunday  names ; 
and  here  in  one,  all  the  butterflies,  beetles  and  lacewings, 
and — ugh !  Look  at  the  horrible  worms!  And  here,"  she 
continued  triumphantly,  "are  all  the  birds  you  love  so 
well! — see  the  blue  jay!  Isn't  he  natural;  and  up  above 
him  is  a  mocking  bird  building  her  nest — " 

"But  she  would  have  run  the  jay  away!"  he  said,  open- 
ing his  eyes  wide. 

"She  will, — as  soon  as  she  sees  him!"  laughed  the 
woman,  hurrying  on.  "And  look  at  the  wrens  and  blue 
birds,  and  indigo  birds  and  swallows; — but  take  them! 
they  are  yours,  Chilon!"  He  took  them,  dividing  the 
burden  under  his  arms  and  with  a  brighter  face  than  she 
had  seen  often,  put  up  his  lips  to  kiss  her. 

"I  am  much  obliged !     You  are  good,  Aunty." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Chilon?" 

"Why,  yes!  Aren't  you  good,  Aunty?"  His  eyes 
opened  wide  and  his  voice  grew  a  trifle  weaker  with  ap- 
prehension. 

"I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  not!"  The 
other  scene  at  home  flashed  into  memory;  the  little  girl, 


LENA  AT  ROSE  COTTAGE.  93 

the  same  question.  "God  knows!"  she  murmured,  and 
turned  from  him. 

"And  I  know,  Lena!"  A  woman  was  standing  in  the 
doorway  smiling  upon  the  little  scene;  a  woman  about 
her  own  height  but  older,  a  trifle  stouter  and  with  a  face 
so  radiantly  pure  and  beautiful  that  the  younger  woman 
paused  for  an  instant  to  gaze  into  it. — "We  all  know, 
dear!"  A  moment  more  and  they  were  in  each  other's 
arms. 

Lena  freed  herself  with  sudden  return  of  the  excitement 
that  had  moved  her  all  the  morning. 

"Celeste,  Celeste!"  she  cried,  "such  news,  such  good 
news!"  her  voice  broke  and  she  shook  her  head,  the  scene 
swimming  in  tears,  "Papa  has  told  me — to  come  and 
bring  you — Oh,  Celeste — I  can't — tell  you!"  She  threw 
herself  into  her  cousin's  arms;  and  Celeste,  her  own  eyes 
grown  dim,  held  her  tightly.  The  little  boy  was  looking 
thoughtfully  upon  the  scene. 

"Well,  Lena,  to  bring  me  where,  and  for  what?" 

"To  him.  Don't  you  understand?  He  is  willing — 
glad — to  let  all  the  past  be  forgotten  between  you  two! 
He  is  old,  Celeste,  and  needs  you  and  me.  I  am  doing 
my  best  and  you  must  forgive  and  forget.  Come  with 
me,  now.  We  won't  have  any  scene;  we'll  just  kiss  all 

around  and  be  good  friends  again,  and "  Celeste  had 

ceased  her  caresses  and  was  looking  thoughtfully  upon 
the  little  boy.  Her  face  had  suddenly  paled,  and  the  pres- 
sure of  a  deep  emotion,  hardly  restrained,  had  set  her 
limbs  trembling.  "Why,^ Celeste!  what  is  the  matter? 
Are  you  not  glad?"  Lena's  eyes  followed  the  direction 
of  the  cousin's  gaze  and  encountered  the  boy's.  Misun- 
derstanding her,  Lena  continued:  "Don't  let's  think  of 
that,  dear!  That,  too,  will  all  come  right.  You  must  go 
to  papa;  it  would  be  cruel  not  to  go.  I  have  a  special 
reason  for  wishing  you  with  me  to-night.  You  are  to 
come  and  spend  the  night,  and  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  that  affects  us  all  deeply;  you  must  not  refuse.  In- 


94  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

deed,  if  you  do,  the  results  may  haunt  you  all  your  life! 
1  have  something  to  tell  you  of — " 

"Chilon!"  whispered  the  other.  "You  have  heard 
from  him;  he  is  coming!  Oh,  Lena!"  The  eyes  of  the 
older  woman  sought  her  face  and  studied  it.  She  saw 
the  brightened  face  and  rising  color  and  marked  the  ex- 
cited manner.  For  a  moment  she  stood  with  drooping 
lids,  silent  and  thoughtful.  Again  she  let  her  gaze  wan- 
der over  the  radiant  woman  before  her. 

"I  shall  come,"  she  said.  "I  think  it  is  my  duty.  As 
for  the  other,  Uncle  Charles  has  no  warmer  friend  than  I. 
He  has  not  treated  me  kindly,  and  he  misjudged  me  cruel- 
ly; but — he  is  only  a  man,  a  poor,  weak  man,"  she  added, 
smiling  again,  "and  men  are  so  helplessly  impractical  I 
have  long  since  forgiven  him!" 

"Why  haven't  you  gone  to  him  and  told  him  so?" 

"I  do  not  think  he  has  needed  me;  and  I  have  had  noth- 
ing to  gain  and  much  to  lose!"  For  the  first  time  Lena 
understood  the  sudden  agitation  that  her  greeting 
brought. 

"There  is  no  danger  of  that,  Celeste;  none  while  Lena 
lives!"  The  other  comprehended  and  shook  her  head. 

"You  think  so,  and  I  hope  so.  Let  us  not  be  unhappy 
about  it.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Come,  Chilon,  and 
let  us  go  over  the  books  with  you.  Aunty  will  want  you 
with  her  while  she  is  here!"  They  went  into  the  broad, 
cheery  sitting-room,  redolent  and  bright  with  flowers  and 
gorgeous  tinted  fruits,  and  taking  his  favorite  position, 
his  elbows  on  the  floor  and  chin  in  hand,  Chilon  began 
his  tour  of  delight.  Presently,  household  demands  called 
Celeste,  and  Lena  was  left  with  the  boy.  She  had  gone 
down  by  him,  prone  upon  the  floor,  and  as  she  turned 
the  pages  she  gave  half  her  attention  to  him  and  half  to 
the  books,  smiling  over  his  grave  comments  upon  birds 
and  insects  and  the  serious  expression  of  his  young  face. 
Her  hand  reached  out  and  toyed  with  his  brown  locks, 
smoothing  and  arranging  them.  Watching  their  artistic 
effects  against  the  whiteness  of  his  brow,  her  own  face 


LENA  AT  ROSE  COTTAGE.  95 

grew  wistful  and  tender  the  while.  Presently  the  last 
page  was  turned,  the  last  gay  picture  of  nature's  wild  chil- 
dren examined,  and  her  arm  drew  him  closer  to  her,  his 
head  against  her  breast. 

"Are  you  a  happy  little  boy,  Chilon?  Do  you  always 
feel  well  and  happy?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  decision.  "Mamma  is  so  good  and 
sweet  she  would  make  anybody  happy!"  The  eyes  of 
the  woman  wore  a  troubled  expression,  and  the  half-smile 
died  upon  her  lips. 

"Wouldn't  you  be  glad  if  you  might  come  home  with 
me,  Chilon,  and  stay  a  long,  long  time,  and  have  all  the 
books  and  toys  you  wish,  and  visit  the  beautiful  stores 
and  see  little  children  dressed  so  prettily; — have  a  pony 
to  ride?" 

"Would  mamma  go,  too?" 

"She  would  come  often  to  see  you; — whenever  she 
wished  to  come." 

"I  would  rather  stay  here,"  he  said,  with  his  grave, 
unchildlike  manner.  "I  am  afraid  mamma  would  miss 
me  when  she  wakes  in  the  night.  Don't  you  think  she 
would,  Aunty?"  She  buried  her  face  suddenly  in  the 
folds  of  her  sleeve  and  was  silent.  He  wondered  at  this 
emotion,  too  deep  for  his  mind,  but  he  saw  that  he  had  in 
some  way  distressed  her,  and  was  silent.  Gently  her  hand 
returned  to  its  rhythmic  stroke  upon  his  head.  The  si- 
lence, the  nooning  summer  day,  the  soft,  sympathetic 
touch  overcame  him.  He  slept  and  lay  upon  her  breast. 

Lena  looked  up  to  find  Celeste  standing  in  the  doorway 
gazing  down  upon  her  with  an  expression  so  singular 
that  for  the  moment  she  thought  something  serious  had 
occurred;  but  the  next  instant  the  well-known  smile 
came  back,  the  face  grew  radiant,  and  crossing  the  room 
she  drew  the  curtain  to  bar  a  ray  of  sunshine  that,  creep- 
ing upon  the  little  boy's  brown  hair,  must  soon  have  trou- 
bled his  eyes.  Then  she  passed  out. 

And  so  the  last  hour  of  morning  wore  away  and  high 


96  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

noon  came  with  its  return  of  life  from  the  fields.  The 
little  hoy  opened  his  eyes. 

"Mamma,"  he  whispered.  A  whisper  came  back  from 
the  breast  upon  which  he  lay. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  am  here!"  He  lifted  his  head  and  looked 
upon  her  with  recognition. 

"I  thought  you  were  mamma,  Aunty,"  he  said.  And  in 
the  woman's  eyes  two  crystal  drops  were  shining 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  RAVENSWOOD      97 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  TRAGEDY  AT  RAVENSWOOD. 

Celeste  came  to  Ravenswood  that  summer  night  and 
entered  the  library  before  any  one  knew  of  her  arrival. 
With  quiet  dignity  she  approached  her  uncle  as  he  arose 
hurriedly,  placed  her  arms  about  him,  and  kissed  him 
upon  the  lips.  He  could  find  no  words  to  express  him- 
self other  than — 

"Welcome,  my  child;  welcome!" 
"Why,  I  know  that,  Uncle  Charles,  without  your  try- 
ing to  tell  me.  And,  indeed,  do  you  know,  I  am  glad 
to  come; — to  see  you  looking  so  well  again.  And  Lena, 
here!" — turning  to  her  cousin — "how  nice  it  is  to  have 
her  in  the  old  home!  It  makes  me  feel  young  again!" 
She  led  them  away  from  their  thoughts  skilfully,  and 
told  of  what  they  were  doing  at  Rose  Cottage,  of  the 
peaches  that  were  immense  and  bringing  good  prices, 
of  the  watermelons,  worth  a  small  fortune,  and  of  the 
cotton  whitening  in  the  fields.  For  sturdy  Robert  Au- 
bren  was  a  good  farmer  and  attended  to  his  business. 

Gradually  all  restraint  passed  away  under  the  match- 
less charm  of  the  two  women  and  their  loving  devo- 
tion. The  colonel  found  himself  aroused  and  happier 
than  he  had  ever  expected  to  be  again.  They  opened 
the  organ  and  sung  for  him  some  of  the  old-time  melo- 
dies he  loved  so  well,  suggestive  of  the  days  before  the 
war — "Suwanee  River,"  "Massa's  in  the  Cold,  Cold 
Ground,"  and  "Nelly  Ely."  Then  came  the  southern 
soldier's  favorites,  "Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me,"  and  "Dixie." 
But  a  page  in  the  old  music  book  held  "Lorena,"  and 
when  the  colonel's  eye  caught  sight  of  it  he  was  full  of 
enthusiasm. 

"It  brings  back  the  campfires    and    those    Virginia 
nights  so  vividly.     There  was  in  camp  a  young  fellow 
who  would  stand  up  in  the  firelight  every  night  and 
1 


98  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

close  the  singing  with  that  song.  Poor  boy,  he  died 
alone  in  prison.  Sing  it,  girls;  let  me  hear  it  once 
again." 

Celeste  was  playing  the  accompaniment  and  she  be- 
gan the  simple  ballad,  so  pathetic  in  its  sentiment — 

The  years  glide  slowly  by,  Lorena, 
Since  last  I  held  thy  hand  in  mine. 

The  once  powerful  voice  of  the  old  soldier  rang  out 
strongly  again,  sometimes  drowning  both  Celeste's  voice 
and  accompaniment.  He  did  not  notice  that  Lena  was 
not  singing,  nor  that  she  had  drawn  back  into  the 
shadow  and  was  trying  desperately  to  check  her  emo- 
tion. Celeste  did,  and  realized  their  mistake.  The  best 
possible  course,  then,  was  to  complete  it,  and  give  Lena 
time  to  compose  herself.  This  she  succeeded  in  with 
difficulty.  Scarce  would  she  conquer  her  tears  and  draw 
back  silently  to  the  instrument  before  some  line  that 
seemed  to  have  been  planned  for  her  would  ring  out 
and  start  her  grief  anew. 

"Thank  you,  girls!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  fervently; 
"it  has  done  me  so  much  good.  War  is  a  terrible  thing, 
but  it  wakes  a  nation's  heart.  And  I  sometimes  think, 
if  we  could  have  our  loved  ones  back  from  the  battle- 
fields and  burial  grounds,  we  could  spare  all  the  treas- 
ure lost  and  call  the  price  a  small  one.  And  even  grief 
brings  us  something.  We  are  better  people  when  we 
have  suffered,  even  if  we  never  forget." 

This  was  a  new  vein  for  the  old  soldier.  Lena  had 
glided  from  the  room  at  the  close  of  this  sentence,  and 
when  she  came  again  no  trace  of  her  conflict  re- 
mained. 

So  passed  the  evening.  Celeste  had  kept  up  her  chess 
with  her  grandfather  at  Rose  Cottage  and  now  chal- 
lenged her  uncle  for  a  game.  He  accepted,  and  was 
beaten  over  and  over,  much  to  his  surprise. 

"My  child,  I  used  to  beat  you  without  effort!"  he 
cried,  nonplussed.  "Have  I,  indeed,  fallen  off  so  in  my 
game?" 


THE  TRAGEDY.  AT  RAVENSWOOD.      99 

"Oh,  no!     Your  game  is  the  same,  Uncle,  but  mine 
is  not.     Try  again!     I  am  going  to  experiment  with  a 
new  gambit  and  give  you  a  chance.    There,  I  will  open 
with  the  King's  Knight's  pawn.    Now  I  am  weak  until 
the  fourth  move,  and  you  have  your  opportunity!" 
He  saw  it  and  won,  much  to  his  delight. 
Eight,  nine,  ten; — the  evening  was  ended.     Flushed 
and  excited,  Lena    stood    waiting.     Good-nights    were 
said,  and  resuming  his  paper  for  an  hour's  reading,  the 
colonel  let  them  go. 

A  summer  storm  was  brewing,  foretold  by  gusts  of 
wind  and  the  rumble  of  distant  thunder. 

The  two  women  went  to  the  room  prepared  for  Ce- 
leste, and  whispered  their  plans,  while  steadily  in  her 
window  burned  Lena's  lamp.  They  did  not  hear  a  man's 
quick  step  upon  the  porch,  his  entrance  into  the  library ; 
but  Richard  Marbeau  arrived  and  gave  a  business  ex- 
cuse. For  some  time  the  men  sat  and  talked,  and  then 
the  younger  saw  the  elder  to  his  room  and  extinguished 
the  lamp  in  the  library. 

The  house  was  now  dark  and  quiet;  only  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  on  the  stairs  and  the  slight  tapping  of  a 
chinaberry  limb  against  a  distant  shutter  broke  the 
silence. 

No  one  ever  knew  Richard  Marbeau's  full  intention 
that  night.  He  passed  noiselessly  upstairs  along  the 
hall,  and  placed  his  hand  upon  the  knob  of  his  wife's 
door.  It  turned  and  the  latch  yielded.  Opening  the 
door  quickly  he  stepped  inside,  closed  it  and  stood  with 
his  back  against  it,  looking  eagerly  about  him.  Lena 
had  returned,  and  at  sound  of  his  entrance  had  arisen,  a 
glad  smile  upon  her  face.  When  she  recognized  him 
and  noted  his  quick,  searching  glance  about  the  room, 
her  heart  gave  one  great  throb,  and  she  reeled  in  her 
tracks.  Her  first  words  were,  to  the  visitor,  a  confes- 
sion: 

"Is  it  you?"  she  gasped,  one  hand  clasping  her  breast, 
the  other  a  chair. 


100  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

This,  the  deathly  pallor,  the  agitation  and  staring  eyes 
were  enough.  He  was  merciless. 

"Yes,  it  is  I!  Whom  did  you  expect?"  he  asked  sar- 
castically. She  threw  her  hands  to  her  temples. 

"Go  back!  Go  back!"  she  cried.  "For  God's  sake! 
— you  don't  know  what  you  do!  Go  back  before  it  is 
too  late!" 

She  was  frantic  now. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  as  he  resisted  her  efforts  to 
move  him  from  his  position,  "let  me  go  and  you  stay! 
Give  me  the  key  quick  before  it  is  too  late!" 

He  seized  her  by  the  shoulders  and  with  brutal  force 
hurled  her  headlong  across  the  room.  Stunned  and 
bruised,  she  struggled  to  her  feet  only  to  see  him  draw 
the  key  from  the  lock,  step  outside,  replace  it  and  close 
the  door.  Then  the  bolt  slid.  She  flew  to  the  knob  and 
seized  it;  the  door  was  locked  beyond  doubt.  She 
thought  of  the  transom;  a  chair  might  enable  her  to 
reach  it  and  plunge  through;  and  she  would  have  tried 
desperately,  but  at  that  moment  she  saw  the  lamp.  With 
one  bound  she  reached  it  and  rushed  with  it  to  the 
other  window.  A  cry  of  triumph  burst  from  her  and 
she  sank  upon  her  knees,  sending  up  thanks  to  heaven 
for  her  deliverance.  Richard  was  safe  now.  If  Chilon 
came  he  would  see  the  danger  signal  and  keep  away; 
he  would  not  enter  and  ruin  his  life  and  hers.  Would 
it  not  be  better  to  extinguish  the  lamp  altogether.  Yes! 
But  no!  He  came  once  when  the  light  was  out;  he  had 
said  so  in  his  note,  and  might  come  again.  Yet  she 
had  written  that  she  would  remain;  and  he  might  not 
notice  the  position  of  the  lamp.  She  turned  down  the 
flame  and  blew  it  out.  The  man  in  the  hall  saw  the  light 
through  the  transom  die  out  and  smiled;  and  still  he 
waited,  while  inside  the  woman  peered  from  the  window 
trying  to  fathom  the  shadow  with  her  straining  eyes. 
The  lightning  was  now  incessant  and  the  thunder  deaf- 
ening. Minutes  passed.  Would  he  never  come  inside, 
the  man  in  the  hall  waiting  so  patiently  for — he  knew 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  RAVENSWOOD.  IOI 

not  what?  Would  the  night  drag  its  horror  over  her 
until  dawn  came?  What  was  that?  A  footfall?  Ha!  a 
struggle  in  the  hall.  A  shriek  burst  from  her: 

"Merciful  Heaven,  he  has  come!  Chilon!  Chilon! 
Stop,  for  my  sake,  for  Lena's  sake!  Chilon,  wait!  I 
will  explain  it  all!  Don't  strike  him,  Chilon,  don't 
strike!" 

She  seized  the  door  knob  in  her  frantic  terror  and 
screamed  to  her  father  for  help.  Her  cries  rang  out 
from  the  room  like  the  cries  of  madmen  in  padded  cells. 
They  were  followed  by  the  sharp  report  of  a  pistol,  a 
strange,  fearful  cry,  and  the  fall  of  a  body.  A  vivid 
flash  of  lightning  and  a  thunder-burst  seemed  to  swallow 
up  both  sounds.  But  light  shone  in  the  hallway  and 
Celeste's  voice  was  heard  in  one  heart-rending  appeal. 
Then  the  light  seemed  to  flicker,  that  came  through  the 
transom,  and  went  out,  and  all  was  still  and  dark,  ex- 
cept when  the  electric  fluid  tore  the  night  and  the  re- 
treating thunder  echoed  from  the  hills.  Gasping  now 
with  terror,  unable  to  utter  a  sound,  she  leaned  against 
the  door.  Faintly  she  seemed  to  hear  her  father's  hur- 
ried step.  He  tried  the  door,  then  unlocked  it  and 
rushed  in,  candle  in  hand.  She  was  unable  to  retain  her 
balance,  and  fell  heavily  to  the  floor. 

"Where  is  Richard — where  is  your  husband?"  he 
asked  excitedly,  lifting  her  to  her  feet. 

Slowly  and  fearfully  she  pointed  toward  the  hall. 

"Dead!"  she  whispered.  She  turned  and  sank  by  the 
bed,  burying  her  face  in  the  cover.  He  passed  rapidly 
into  the  hall.  Celeste  lay  in  a  dead  faint  near  her  door, 
the  extinguished  candle  by  her  hand.  He  touched  her 
cold  face  upon  which  the  wind  was  blowing.  Shading 
his  candle  he  advanced  to  the  open  door  of  the  corner 
room  and  entered.  Familiar  with  death  as  he  had  been, 
the  sight  that  met  his  eyes  froze  the  blood  in  his  veins. 
Lying  upon  his  back,  his  ghastly  eyes  widely  opened, 
was  Richard,  bathed  in  blood  that  seemed  creeping 
everywhere.  The  whole  story  was  written  there.  A  long, 


102  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

keen  knife  lay  on  the  floor,  the  dead  hand  still  clasped 
a  pistol  and  bloody  tracks  led  to  an  open  window. 

For  a  moment  Colonel  Marbeau  stood  in  silence  look- 
ing into  the  mute  face  and  reading  the  signs  about  him. 
The  man  had  heard  a  sound,  had  come  from  his  room 
into  the  dark,  had  fired  and,  following  the  intruder  too 
closely,  they  had  come  together  in  the  little  room.  The 
knife  had  done  its  deadly  work. 

The  old  man's  features  worked  convulsively;  there 
had  been  no  great  love  between  them,  but  Richard  was 
Lena's  husband!  He  closed  the  door,  and  went  back, 
with  Celeste  in  his  arms,  to  the  bedroom,  where  he  soon 
succeeded  in  restoring  her  to  consciousness.  Lena  still 
knelt  motionless  by  the  bed,  her  form  shaken  by  dry, 
soundless  sobs. 

"Lena,"  he  said,  "rise,  my  child,  and  calm  yourself.  I 
will  go  and  send  Nancy  to  you.  It  is  a  terrible  night; 
a  terrible  ending  of  a  happy  night.  I  wish  I  could  com- 
fort you —  His  voice  gave  way. 

"Papa!  Papa! — "  The  girl's  eyes  questioned  him  in 
anguish. 

"It  is  true!"  he  said.  "He  died — like  a  Marbeau 
should,  in  defense  of  his  wife  and  home!" 

Celeste  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel,  silent,  her 
face  as  white  as  the  marble  itself.  They  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  came  together  in  each  other's  arms. 
The  face  of  the  older  woman  did  not  change  expres- 
sion. 

"Chilon  may  come.  We  must  be  careful,"  she  said. 
Lena  started. 

"Chilon/'  she  cried.    "Have  you  not  seen  him?" 

"I  saw  a  tramp!"  said  Celeste  proudly.  "Chilon  has 
not  been  here  yet."  Lena  looked  upon  her  a  moment 
and  dropping  to  her  knees  seized  and  kissed  the  hand 
of  her  cousin.  The  words  burst  from  her: 

"Good  Celeste,  true-hearted,  noble  Celeste!  I  thank 
you!  I  thank  you!"  But  when  with  trembling  fingers 
she  relit  her  lamp  she  did  not  place  it  before  either 
window. 


BACK  FROM  THE  GRAVE.  103 

CHAPTER    XXII. 
BACK  FROM  THE  GRAVE. 

Chilon  lay  watching  the  little  flame  which,  summer 
and  winter,  flickered  upon  Silvy's  hearth.  In  after  years 
he  could  recall  every  detail  of  the  scene,  so  strongly 
sometimes  do  little  things  stick  in  memory.  There  was 
the  white  ash,  still  holding  the  shape  of  the  wood  that 
had  vanished;  there  were  the  half-concealed  coals  with 
the  blue  smoke  curling  above  and  underneath,  the  little 
flame  thrusting  above  outward  and  upward  and  drawing 
back  its  tongue,  the  tongue  of  a  serpent,  it  seemed  to 
him.  He  made  no  effort  to  think.  It  did  not  seem 
strange  to  him  that  he  should  be  there  in  bed  in  the 
day  time  without  inclination  to  move;  without  curiosity 
or  desire  to  talk.  He  had  been  very  tired  and  rest  was 
delicious.  He  saw  old  Silvy  kneel  between  him  and  the 
blaze  and  begin  to  scratch  the  sand  from  around  two 
hearth  bricks,  and  presently  her  claw-like  fingers  lift 
one  from  its  bed.  There  was  nothing  strange  in  that; 
it  seemed  perfectly  natural  that  Silvy  should  be  down 
there  tearing  up  her  hearth.  He  saw  her,  without  even 
a  moment  of  surprise,  draw  from  the  cavity  an  old  stock- 
ing and  empty  a  collection  of  coins  and  bills  into  her 
lap,  and  lift  her  head  to  listen  for  footsteps.  If  Silvy 
had  done  this  in  his  presence  every  day  her  action  now 
could  not  have  been  less  remarkable.  He  even  dozed 
off  again  for  a  few  minutes  while  she  was  thus  busy. 

But  when  he  awoke  he  began  to  ask  himself  if  he 
should  get  up.  He  had  an  engagement  after  dark;  per- 
haps the  sun  was  descending.  He  was  sure  that  he  had 
an  engagement;  but  where?  He  was  to  go  to  his  uncle's 
house  and  meet  Lena;  he  had  promised.  A  doubt 
flashed  into  his  mind.  Had  he  promised?  Was  it  all 
a  dream,  those  meetings,  the  memory  of  which  was  ris- 
ing, slowly,  within  him?  He  had  come  to  Silvy's  cabin 


104  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

from  up  the  river;  he  was  tired  and  exhausted.  He  had 
slept,  oh,  so  long,  and  so  hard,  and  the  sleep  had  been 
full  of  visions.  Lena  had  been  with  him  in  their  old 
room.  She  had  let  him  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss 
her  and  tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  over  and  over.  It 
\vas  a  beautiful  dream;  and  she  was  to  have  met  him 
on  Wednesday  night.  He  had  waked  too  soon. 

His  gaze  concentrated  upon  a  man's  clothing  hang- 
ing against  the  wall.  That  was  not  the  suit  that  he  had 
worn  when  he  was  a  fugitive.  In  his  dream  Lena  had 
gotten  it  for  him,  just  that  particular  suit  of  dark  gray, 
the  shade  that  she  loved  to  well  in  the  long  ago  time 
before  he  went  away.  Yes,  that  was  the  suit;  and  how 
could  the  dream  vanish,  leaving  such  a  matter  of  fact 
feature  upon  the  cabin  wall?  Was  it  a  dream? 

A  feeble  rush  of  blood  responded  to  the  thrill  which 
the  doubt  awoke;  feeble,  but  sufficient  to  vitalize  the 
brain  again  and  to  lift  the  veil.  All  flashed  before  him 
then;  the  experiences  of  the  last  few  weeks.  It  was  not 
a  dream.  He  had  been  with  her,  touched  her  hand  and 
felt  her  kisses  upon  his  lips;  and  she  was  to  come  on 
Wednesday  night!  It  was  time  that  he  should  rise  and 
dress. 

For  once  the  brain  gave  command  and  there  was 
mutiny  in  all  the  little  army  of  nerves  that  waited  upon 
him.  Not  one  moved.  He  felt  then,  for  the  first  time, 
that  he  was  held  down  by  some  strange,  resistless  power; 
not  a  weight,  but  an  attraction  stronger  than  himself. 
He  knew  that  health  was  measurable  by  one's  ability  to 
resist  the  law  of  gravitation  and  that  death  marks  the 
point  of  total  disability.  What  had  happened?  Where 
were  his  arms  and  legs  and  hands? 

"Mammy!"  He  called  to  the  old  woman,  but  his  voice 
died  in  his  throat;  it  did  not  amount  to  an  infant's  wail. 
In  desperation  now,  he  tried  again  and  must  have  suc- 
ceeded, for  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  toward  him. 
But  he  was  then  too  sleepy,  too  tired  to  talk;  and  when 
his  eyes  opened  again  night  had  descended, 


BACK  FROM  THE  GRAVE.  105 

Thus  came  back  the  world  to  Chilon.  He  soon  found 
out  the  trouble  with  his  limbs  and  voice.  Swamp  fever 
had  carried  him  to  the  brink  of  the  grave  and  five  weeks 
had  watched  the  efforts  of  the  grim  spectre  to  bury  him 
there.  When  he  became  conscious  of  these  facts  his 
mental  troubles  began.  Lena!  Why  had  not  she  come 
to  him?  Why  this  cruel  neglect?  He,  Chilon,  the  man 
she  loved,  the  only  man  she  had  ever  loved,  sick  almost 
unto  death  in  this  lonely  cabin;  and  never  a  word,  a 
visit!  She  could  have  come,  he  reasoned.  She  knew 
the  way  in  days  gone  by  and  Silvy  was  her  friend.  She 
could  have  found  excuse  and  have  come.  He  would 
have  gone  to  her.  Five  weeks!  It  was  an  eternity. 

And  then  he  remembered  the  days  that  had  passed 
before  his  illness — long  days  and  nights  of  mental  an- 
guish, in  which  he  had  waited  and  watched  for  her  in 
vain.  She  had  not  answered  his  note;  she  had  not 
come.  He  had  written  her  at  last  that  if  she  did  not 
come  on  Wednesday  night — what?  He  could  not  re- 
member; but  it  seemed  to  him  that  something  terrible 
was  to  have  occurred  if  she  failed  him  then.  Perhaps 
she  came.  Perhaps  she  waited  and  watched  for  him  all 
the  lonely  night.  He  questioned  the  old  woman.  She 
laughed  softly,  and,  touching  his  head,  told  him  to 
sleep;  and  he  slept.  He  could  not  resist  the  pressure 
of  those  gray  eyes  upon  his  lids. 

Then,  gradually,  out  of  the  mists  that  overhung  him, 
he  saw  figures  rise  and  felt  himself  the  actor  in  a  drama 
so  wild,  so  weird  and  awful  that  he  could  scarcely  endure 
to  contemplate  it.  Hour  after  hour  it  came  to  him,  one 
detail  upon  another,  with  gaps  here  and  there,  but  form- 
ing always  a  consistent  history.  He  remembered  tossing 
on  that  pallet  hot  with  fever,  calling  for  Lena  one  mo- 
ment and  water  the  next,  blessing  her,  cursing,  praying 
to  her  through  miserable  hours,  the  aged  black  weaving 
in  and  out  of  his  visions  like  some  fantastic,  human 
shuttle,  tossed  by  a  gigantic  hand.  Again  she  would 
come  and  stand  above  him,  waving  to  and  fro,  holding 


106  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

him  spellbound  with  her  eyes.  In  her  hand  she  bore  an 
awful  black  drink  from  which  he  shrunk,  pleading 
against,  rejecting  it,  writhing  in  the  agony  of  his  utter 
antipathy;  but  always  accepting  at  last.  Then,  as  he 
drank,  her  face  no  longer  wore  its  imbecile  grin.  With 
head  erect  and  tread  timed  to  the  music  of  his  pulse,  she 
sang  her  wild  melodies. 

Revenge,  hatred,  triumph  blended  in  that  fateful  song. 
And  whenever  he  was  about  to  escape  from  these,  when 
he  had  planned  to  rush  into  the  cool,  dark,  silent  swamp, 
she  would  come  and  bend  over  him,  holding  him,  com- 
manding him  with  her  eyes,  against  which  he  could  not 
prevail,  and  forcing  again  the  black,  bitter,  acrid  juice 
between  his  teeth.  All  other  horrors  were'  swallowed  up 
in  this  one;  it  was  not  a  woman  who  reigned  there;  it 
was  a  demon  that  had  stolen  her  form,  and  now  held 
him  in  his  power. 

And  this  happened;  the  fiend  waved  its  arms  above 
him  and  visions  came;  he  saw  Richard  Marbeau  seize 
upon  and  carry  off  his  wife;  he  heard  her  calling  to  him 
for  help  with  hands  reaching  madly  to  touch  his.  He 
saw  his  enemy's  arms  about  her,  his  lips  to  hers  and  then 
a  frightful  struggle.  The  woman-fiend  danced  before  his 
eyes  and  sang  her  songs  of  war.  She  seized  the  long 
knife  from  the  chimney  and  handed  it  to  him;  "Go  and 
save  her!"  she  said;  "go  and  avenge  the  blow!"  She 
had  torn  open  her  dress,  and  there,  upon  the  shoulder, 
was  the  open  wound,  its  lips  moving  in  dumb  agony 
like  a  thing  of  life  at  sight  of  death — lips  that  prayed 
to  him  for  revenge;  that  twisted  themselves  in  sinuous 
lines  and  smiled  and  laughed,  cursed  and  uttered  blas- 
phemies. She  lifted  him  and  pushed  him  from  the  door, 
and  he  went  away  from  those  awful  lips  obedient  to  her 
will.  As  he  slipped  forth  into  the  night  one  great  hiss- 
ing, scorching,  blinding  flame  from  hell  flashed  behind 
him  and  exploded  in  the  swamp,  leaving  of  all  the 
myriad  things  of  life — no  living  thing.  In  that  awful 
light,  as  he  looked  back,  he  saw  her  transformed;  no 


BACK  FROM  THE  GRAVE.  107 

woman  was  there,  but  a  being  resplendent  with  awful 
glories,  the  incarnation  of  fearful  majesty,  pointing  loft- 
ily the  way.  He  fled,  the  lightning  keeping  him  com- 
pany, hollowing  out  the  wall  of  night  ahead  and  drip- 
ping like  molten  gold  from  the  naked  blade  within  his 
hand.  But  he  fled  not  away  from  her!  for  the  awful 
form  of  the  old  woman  was  there,  slipping  by  him  in  the 
dark  woods,  crawling  like  an  animal  of  the  night  along 
the  roadside,  clinging  like  a  shadow  to  his  heels.  Afar 
off,  moving  light  crossed  his  vision.  He  knew  then, 
that  he  did  not  dream,  for  these  were  the  lights  of 
Ravenswood.  He  thought  no  more  of  concealment;  he 
came  bounding  with  the  storm  like  a  panther;  he  came 
in  a  whirlwind  of  debris  and  stormdrift,  and,  knife  be- 
tween his  teeth,  he  scaled  the  lashing  tree  and  plunged 
headlong  into  a  room.  A  man's  hand  was  upon  him; 
they  fell,  and  when  he  arose  the  lightning  trembled  over 
all.  He  saw  a  woman  that  looked  like  Celeste  reel  back 
into  the  shadowy  hall.  There  at  his  feet,  with  staring 
eyes  fixed  upon  him,  lay  Richard  Marbeau.  Oh,  the 
horror,  the  agony,  the  piteous  pleading  of  the  still,  white 
face;  those  fixed,  sad  eyes!  One  instant  only  the  scene 
shone  there;  the  flash  expired  and  deafening  thunder 
came.  He  reached  the  cabin,  but  how  he  could  not  re- 
member. The  old  woman  was  there,  her  song  grown 
wilder  as  she  wiped  the  blood  from  his  hands,  feet  and 
clothing.  She  had  asked  him  no  questions;  there  was 
no  need.  She  had  slipped  back  her  dress  from  the 
shoulder;  the  wound  was  gone.  In  its  place  was  a 
smiling  scar. 

Was  it  all  a  dream — a  fever  vision?  He  looked  to 
the  chimney  for  the  knife.  It  had  vanished. 

"Come!  Come!"  he  argued  with  himself  after  this, 
smiling  over  his  terror;  "you  will  never  get  well  if  you 
excite  yourself  in  such  a  manner!  All  fever  patients 
have  dreams  and  yours  are  no  worse  than  others.  A  lit- 
tle brain  cell  took  impressions  of  your  resolution  to  kill 
Richard  if  you  met — words  spoken  in  rage  and  sworn  to. 


108  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

Under  the  influence  of  fever  or  the  medicine  you  have 
been  taking,  the  little  cell  has  exposed  its  picture  and  all 
its  connections  have  run  themselves  out  into  story  form. 
Sleep!  Dreams  go  by  opposites." 

And  he  slept!     But  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
conviction  that  Silvy  was  a  changed  woman. 


CHILON'S  DESPAIR.  109 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 
CHILON'S  DESPAIR. 

So  his  mind  passed  again  to  Lena,  forking  over  the 
old  mass  of  thought  and  still  seeking  an  explanation. 
Perhaps  she,  too,  had  been  sick!  Oh,  yes,  that  was  it. 
Lena  was  sick,  and  this  being  true,  she  could  not  pos- 
sibly communicate  with  him  without  discovery. 

And  they  would  not  let  her  read  his  notes.  The 
thought  alarmed,  but  made  him  happier. 

Days  passed.  From  somewhere  old  Silvy  was  pro- 
curing delicacies  that  assisted  his  convalescence.  He  was 
soon  able  to  walk  about  and  the  exercise  did  him  good. 
The  time  came  when  he  could  utilize  the  mails  again  and 
he  wrote  to  Lena  a  few  lines,  doubting  that  they  would 
reach  her,  but  asking  her  to  communicate  with  him  in 
some  way.  There  was  no  answer;  and  no  light  shone  in 
the  Ravenswood  windows.  Then  he  wrote  again  that 
he  had  been  desperately  ill  for  weeks  and  needed  her. 
Would  she  not  come  to  him?  He  took  this  note  to  the 
city  after  dark,  in  his  desperation,  and  sent  it  by  a  boy 
to  her  number.  The  boy  came  and  said  there  was  no 
answer.  Dumfounded  and  griefstricken,  he  returned  to 
the  cabin.  That  night  he  sought  to  enter  the  mansion, 
thinking  to  read  the  papers  for  information.  If  any- 
thing serious  had  happened,  if  even  the  family  had  gone 
away  from  the  city,  it  would  be  recorded  in  the  press. 
But  the  window  by  which  he  had  entered  was  nailed  up. 
The  house  seemed  vacant. 

Chilon  could  arrive  at  but  one  conclusion  then.  His 
return  had  been  discovered.  Richard  had  succeeded, 
and  he  would  never  see  Lena  again.  There  had  been 
explanations;  perhaps  an  agreement  that  was  necessary 
for  her  and  fatal  to  him.  Perhaps  she  had  thrown  him 
over.  In  his  despair  this  seemed  most  likely.  The 
dream  had  been  dismissed  as  a  mere  fever  fugue. 


HO  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

After  this  last  disappointment,  Chilon  fell  into  a  mel- 
ancholy that  amounted  almost  to  complete  despair.  He 
could  neither  eat  with  appetite  nor  sleep  with  comfort. 
Always  there  lay  upon  his  mind  a  weight  that  seemed 
to  crush  every  instinct  of  manhood,  every  ambition  and 
resolution.  The  end  had  come.  The  years  of  waiting, 
a  few  weeks  of  delirious  happiness,  mixed  with  wild  and 
ungovernable  fears,  jealousies,  longings,  and  regrets,  and 
now  the  end!  He  wished  that  he  understood  better  the 
feminine  mind.  How  could  this  woman — loving  him — 
have  left  him  so  heartlessly?  Did  she  love  him?  Or  was 
his  influence  a  species  of  fascination,  a  mild  hypnotism 
that  ended  with  separation?  He  reviewed  his  early  ex- 
perience with  her;  there  had,  even  in  the  old  days,  been 
something  he  could  never  fathom  in  her  character,  a  rest- 
less, unsettled,  unsatisfied  element.  But  that  was  natural 
under  the  circumstances.  He  tried  to  reason  out  the 
mood  which  now  governed  her.  "She  has  a  child,"  he 
said,  "and  will  sacrifice  herself  and  me,  if  necessary,  for 
it.  I  am,  I  can  be,  nothing  to  her,  and  every  moment 
here  with  me  is  perilous.  Heroic  measures  must  be 
adopted.  She  will  crush  my  very  desire  to  see  her.  I 
must  go  away  and  leave  her  to  her  fate  and  let  her 
take  up  the  old  life  again." 

And  then  he  would  rebel  against  this  cold-blooded 
worldliness:  "To  be  choked  off,  shaken  off  like  an  im- 
portunate beggar;  to  be  left  with  no  comforting  word, 
no  message  of  hope  and  sympathy!  Oh,  it  was  cruel, 
cruel,  heartless  and  cruel!  The  Lena  of  long  ago  would 
not  have  done  so  unkind,  so  cruel  an  act!  She  was  dead, 
the  little  Lena  that  loved  him — dead!  The  woman  who 
remained  was  simply  a — but  no!  He  would  coin  no 
epithet;  the  woman  was  still  dear  to  him.  He  drew  out 
her  picture,  the  miniature,  and  looked  upon  it;  the  sweet 
face  and  loving  eyes  made  his  heart  ache!  They  would 
make  it  ache  in  all  the  long  years  to  come,  and  unless 
he  intended  to  yield  to  fate  and  die  by  his  own  hand,  he 
must  part  from  it. 


CHILON'S  DESPAIR.  Ill 

But  there  was  a  stimulus  to  action  that,  dormant  all 
these  days,  awoke  his  manhood  at  last.  Revenge!  If 
he  should  lie  down  and  die  two  men  in  the  world,  two 
men  who  had  wronged  him  fatally,  would  be  happy. 
Carl  Garner  and  Richard  Marbeau!  He  would  not  yield 
until  he  met  them  face  to  face  and  had  his  revenge;  and 
have  it  he  would,  even  should  it  lead  him  to  the  gal- 
lows, or  back  to  a  felon's  cell.  A  man  who  does  not 
value  his  life  makes  a  dangerous  enemy! 

The  time  had  come  for  him  to  depart,  and  he  began 
to  make  preparations.  He  had  no  money,  nor  friends, 
but  the  world  was  wide  and  work  plentiful.  At  the 
mouth  of  his  river  lay  vessels,  some  of  which  were  usual- 
ly short-handed.  He  would  go,  leaving  his  old  life  fin- 
ished, closed  up;  the  woman  he  had  loved  and  who  had 
proven  herself  narrow  and  scheming  would  be  nothing 
to  him.  She  had  been  everything  to  him  once,  but 
scarcely  was  he  out  of  the  way  before  another  man  won 
her,  body  and  soul.  He  laughed  bitterly  to  think  how 
cheap  was  all  that  he  had  staked  his  happiness  upon.  He 
drew  out  the  picture  and  gazed  upon  it  for  the  last  time, 
and  then  he  wrote  a  dozen  notes,  carrying  them  in  his 
pockets  and  reading  them  over  and  over,  always  to  be 
destroyed  in  the  end.  He  would  not  reproach  or  wound 
her.  He  would  pass  out  of  her  life  the  same  Chilon  that 
entered  it,  incapable  of  deliberately  inflicting  pain  upon 
her.  Whatever  she  might  be,  there  were  excuses;  but 
as  for  him,  he  would  carry  with  him  through  life  the 
memory  of  a  last  act  of  gentleness  to  her.  So  he  wrote 
at  length : 

"In  your  silence  I  read  all  and  more  than  you  would 
wish,  and  to-day  I  leave  you  forever.  This  little  picture 
would  keep  me  from  meeting  the  issue  as  a  man  should, 
and  so  I  have  decided  to  ask  you  to  put  it  aside  for 
little  Lena.  It  is  the  only  picture  of  my  Lena  in  exist- 
ence, and  some  day  when  the  little  girl  is  grown  and  is 
told  that  Chilon  Marbeau  once  loved  her  mother,  she 
may  look  upon  it  and  find  the  justification.  In  the  back 


112  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

of  the  medallion  are  the  violets  you  gave  to  me  at  Ra- 
venswood  ten  years  ago.  Let  them  remain  there,  buried 
with  the  girl  who,  while  she  lived,  loved  no  one  else  on 
earth  as  she  did  me,  and  whom  I  loved,  love,  and  will 
love  better  than  life  always. 

"You  and  I  may  never  meet  again.  I  do  not  think 
that  we  will,  and  this  is  the  last  message  that  will  ever 
pass  between  us.  Remember  always  that  I  am  your 
friend,  and  I  will  try  to  forget  that  your  last  act  toward 
me  was  unkind,  contemptuous,  at  a  time  when  I  needed, 
above  all  things,  a  loving  word  from  you. 

"C.  M." 

On  the  morrow  he  would  go.  The  hour  was  almost 
at  hand.  He  placed  his  little  package  in  the  mail  box 
and  returned.  He  thought  sadly  of  the  future;  it  held 
nothing  for  him.  If  only  he  had  one  friend  in  the  outer 
world  to  whom  he  could  go!  If  the  gentle  mother  who 
left  him  in  childhood  were  there!  Her  sweet  face  came 
back  to  him  often  and  very  clearly  upon  his  last  day.  She 
was  buried  in  the  little  cemetery  above  the  city  where 
green  slopes  ran  down  into  the  waters,  and  a  white  mon- 
ument stood  over  her,  recording  her  virtues  and  those  of 
her  soldier  husband  asleep  among  the  Pennsylvania  hills 
in  an  unknown  grave.  Dear  little  mother!  His  heart 
grew  tender  as  he  thought  over  the  old  ties.  Then  came 
an  impulse  to  visit  her  grave  and  lay  an  orphan's  tribute 
there.  It  should  be  the  last  act  of  his  old  life. 

Careless  now  of  discovery,  he  went  into  the  swamp 
and  gathered  wild  flowers,  terrestrial  orchids,  azaleas, 
lilies,  amaryllis  and  holly,  and  when  twilight  came  piled 
them  in  his  boat.  The  moon  rose  over  the  horizon  as  he 
reached  the  river  and  silvered  his  upward  path.  In  the 
frozen  splendor  of  that  streaming  way,  he  seemed  to  be 
journeying  back  into  childhood,  where  his  mother  await- 
ed him.  The  idea  was  so  sweet,  so  novel  that  he  lifted 
his  face,  bright  with  the  first  smile  it  had  known  in  many 
a  year.  From  the  banks  where  the  shadows  had  with- 
drawn, whippoorwills  were  calling  to  each  other,  and 


CHILON'S  DESPAIR.  113 

sleepless  Orpheus  of  the  southern  glades,  him  of  the 
gray-barred  wings,  was  pouring  invisible  pearls  into  the 
lap  of  the  night.  The  pyramid  of  flowers  upon  the  craft's 
low  bow,  all  beaded  with  the  diamonds  of  the  dew,  their 
fragrance  shed,  as  dreamily  the  brooding  boatman  found 
the  way;  and  steering  up  the  perfumed  currents  of  the 
air  the  sphinx  moths  came  on  ghostly  wings  and  kissed 
them  even  there! 

Noiselessly  the  little  boat  touched  land  beside  the 
wharfless  city  of  the  dead,  and  Chilon  saw  his  mother's 
tomb  rise  white  before  him.  With  moist  eyes,  he  stood 
there  and  with  loving  care  discharged  his  mission.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  let  memory  bring  back  her  face 
again.  Again  he  caught  from  the  far-away  time  upon 
the  broken  lyre  of  his  heart  her  cradle  songs  and  lulla- 
bies; and  then  arose  that  chill  and  lonely  day  when, 
smiling  in  the  face  of  death,  they  bore  her  away.  He  was 
older  as  he  stood  there  than  she  had  been;  but  he  remem- 
bered with  the  heart  of  a  boy. 


114  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 
THE  FLIGHT. 

He  had  turned  to  depart,  his  silent  farewells  said,  when 
his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  stately  shaft  of  marble 
in  the  adjoining  plat.  It  was  the  burial  place  of  one  of 
his  uncles,  and  no  such  shaft  was  there  when  last  he 
visited  the  spot.  He  approached  it  with  curiosity,  and 
then  observed  that  the  soil  at  his  feet  was  not  grass- 
grown  as  elsewhere.  In  the  dim  light  he  could  not 
easily  have  read  the  inscription,  but  with  the  aid  of  his 
forefinger  he  traced  upon  the  shaft  the  words: 

RICHARD    MARBEAU. 

Died 
August  20,  1890. 

Richard  dead!  The  cause  of  Lena's  absence  was 
plain. 

For  a  moment  only  as  he  stood  he  felt  rush  over  him 
a  thrill,  a  pulse  of  joy.  Fate  had  smoothed  the  way. 
The  next,  ashamed,  he  withdrew  his  hand. 

And  then  he  saw  her,  the  woman,  in  receipt  of  his 
package!  It  was  a  sad  mistake.  It  was  too  late.  He 
sat  upon  the  coping  and  condemned  himself.  It  had 
been  a  cruel  act;  she  was  in  distress  and  he  had  inflicted 
pain  upon  her.  Richard  Marbeau  dead!  The  man  had 
wronged  him  cruelly,  but — he  was  dead!  and  Lena  was 
free.  In  this  one  fact  died  all  animosity — all  hatred. 
Free!  The  future  was  bright.  A  wild,  delirious  joy 
filled  him.  He  arose  again,  remorseful  that  at  such  a 
time,  in  such  a  place,  he  should  be  rejoicing.  He  would 
leave  it  with  a  clear  conscience.  He  would  do  a  gen- 
erous act  to  prove  himself  a  man.  He  stood  over  the 
lonely  grave  with  bowed  head  and  whispered  there: 
"Richard,  you  wronged  me;  but  I  do  not  bear  you  any 


THE  FLIGHT.  1 15 

malice  now.  In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  have  forgiven  you 
as  I  hope  God  will  forgive  me.  And  if  He  so  wills  that 
I  shall  find  my  wife  again,  I  will  be  a  father  to  your 
child." 

He  fancied  then  that  gazing  down  into  the  grave  he 
would  see  the  still  white  face  open  its  eyes  and  look  up 
to  him.  They  were  indeed  open;  he  could  see  them,  but 
what  a  strange  expression  upon  that  face — within  those 
eyes!  Frozen  horror!  And  there  was  blood  all  about 
him,  and  blood  upon  Chilon's  hands!  The  dream  had 
returned.  With  a  cry  of  anguish  and  fear  that  filled 
the  dread  spot  with  echoes  that  returned  to  mock  him 
from  all  sides,  he  rushed  down  the  slope  and  threw 
himself  into  the  boat.  He  crouched  there,  wet  with  cold 
perspiration,  while  the  current,  seizing  it,  drew  it  swiftly 
away.  But  ever  as  he  went  voices  came  and  the  dead 
man's  eyes  followed  him  with  their  stare. 

Chilon  was  aroused  by  his  boat  colliding  with  a  pier. 
The  little  accident  helped  him  to  recover  his  calmness. 
He  held  his  boat  there  in  the  shadow  and  thought  upon 
the  situation.  Was  he  losing  his  mind?  He,  Chilon 
Marbeau,  who  counted  himself  a  man,  frightened  by  a 
fever  phantom — an  hallucination  of  the  sick  room!  He 
tried  to  smile,  to  laugh  it  off;  but  that  stony  stare  clung 
to  memory!  He  could  not  rid  himself  of  it.  A  desper- 
ate desire  seized  upon  him;  he  would  go  to  Lena  and 
hear  from  her  lips  his  dismissal;  would  say  farewell,  if 
need  be.  He  would  settle  with  himself  and  her  for  once 
and  for  all  time.  It  was  right  and  just.  He  owed  it  to 
both.  He  would  not  sneak  back  into  that  world  which 
awaited  him,  misjudged  and  unblessed.  He  was  a  man, 
after  all! 

He  acted  upon  this  idea.  He  found  the  number  of 
her  house  and  rang  the  bell.  A  caretaker  came,  and,  see- 
ing him,  drew  back  in  sudden  fright;  but  he  answered 
the  hurried  questions.  Mrs.  Marbeau  was  away;  had 
been  away  since  the  funeral :  was  expected  home  on  the 
morrow.  That  was  all. 


Il6  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

While  Chilon  pondered,  the  nervous  agent  gently 
closed  the  door.  Puzzled,  his  mind  still  not  clear,  Chilon 
retraced  his  steps.  A  hotel  reading  room,  opening  upon 
a  broad  porch,  attracted  him,  and  no  one  seemed  to  be 
there.  Silently  he  made  his  way  within  the  room.  The 
newspaper  files  hung  convenient. 

"Died  August  2Oth,"  were  the  words  his  ringer  had 
traced  in  the  moonlight;  and  so  he  looked  for  the  issue 
of  the  2 1 st.  He  could  not  have  overlooked  the  informa- 
tion he  sought.  One-half  of  the  first  two  columns  were 
black  with  "scareheads"  setting  forth  the  murder  of  Rich- 
ard Marbeau.  Bending  over  the  table  he  read  it  through, 
fascinated,  his  heart  almost  pulseless,  his  limbs  trembling 
and  the  world  receding. 

The  details  of  the  awful  item  unfolded  and  lay  bare 
before  him.  There  was  much  that  he  had  no  need  to 
read.  The  counterpart  was  in  his  own  mind  and  mem- 
ory. It  was  all  clear  to  him  at  last.  In  his  frenzy, 
fevered,  crazed,  he  had  arisen  and  gone  forth,  carried 
away  by  the  resolution  formed  in  advance  for  that  night, 
as  one  who  resolves  to  wake  at  dawn  will  so  awaken, 
—had  gone,  knife  in  hand,  obedient  to  his  resolution  to 
kill !  He  was  not  guilty.  He  cried  out  the  protest  to  an 
inward  self;  he  began  at  once  the  defense  which  was 
to  last  so  long. 

But  he  had  killed;  he  was  a  murderer!  The  press  was 
full  of  it;  the  country  rang  with  it,  and  the  police  were 
waiting,  watching  for  the  man  who  struck  that  fateful 
blow  in  the  dark!  His  head  swam  and  ached.  He  took 
off  his  hat  to  press  his  numbed,  chilled  brow;  he 
looked  fearfully  around.  One  side  of  the  room  was  a 
mirror,  but  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  fact.  There  was 
a  man  across  there  staring  at  him  with  wild,  pale  eyes; 
a  man  with  gray,  stubbled  beard  and  snow  white  hair. 
He  had  his  hat  off  and  was  going  to  leap  upon  him 
with  manacles  and  bear  him  to  the  floor.  He  would 
have  to  be  quick;  he  would  have  to  fight  a  bitter  fight, 
thought  the  desperate  man,  edging  toward  the  door.  The 


THE  FLIGHT.  117 

other  moved  and  imitated  him  even  to  thrusting  a  hand 
into  a  hip  pocket.  Now  for  it!  With  one  leap  Chilon 
darted  out  and  fled,  his  footsteps  echoing  in  the  street, 
fled  into  the  shadow  and  through  alleys  until,  breathless, 
he  reached  the  boat  and  thrust  it  into  the  stream.  To 
his  disordered  brain  the  bells  of  the  city  rang  for  pur- 
suit, and  the  river  swarmed  with  boats.  He  bent  to  his 
task,  he  distanced  them,  he  turned  into  the  little  bayou 
and  neared  the  cabin  site,  a  faint  glow  lighting  the  way. 
But  the  cabin  was  gone ;  in  its  place  were  beds  of  coals 
and  smoking  rafters.  Among  them,  face  down  upon  the 
hearth,  lay  the  voodoo,  alone  with  her  awful  doom. 
Breaking  through  the  barricade  of  fire  and  smoke  he 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  staggered  out.  Gone  now  were 
the  fearful  fancies  of  the  night.  One  person  in  all  the 
world  had  succored  and  sustained  him;  one  had  been 
his  friend.  He  would  not  desert  her!  And  so,  under 
the  glaring  eyes  of  frightened  negroes  fleeing  back  into 
the  night,  he  brought  her  out  of  the  furnace  and  laid  her 
in  his  boat.  Her  fading  eyes  gave  him  gratitude.  Her 
shriveled  fingers  gave  more,  as,  relaxing,  they  let  fall  at 
his  feet  that  which  she  had  died  in  saving — the  treasure 
from  her  hearth,  the  little  hoardings  of  fifty  years. 

And  so  all  down  the  hours  of  that  moon-lit  night,  be- 
tween the  walls  of  cane  and  through  the  shadowy  grot- 
toes of  the  spreading  cypress  and  the  gums,  the  strange- 
ly burdened  craft  drew  on.  In  the  stern  sat  the  pale- 
eyed,  white-haired  man,  chilled  with  the  realization  of 
his  tragedies ;  in  the  bow  lay  the  yellow  woman ;  her  dim 
eyes  staring  into  the  skies.  As  before  he  had  journeyed 
into  childhood,  freighting  the  night  winds  with  the 
breathings  of  his  flowers,  so  now  he  turned  his  back  on 
youth,  facing  eternity;  that  which  he  saw  before  him  a 
breathless  mass  that  might  have  stood  for  grief,  remorse, 
lost  hope  and  unsatisfied  longings.  Something  of  this 
came  to  him  as  hour  by  hour  they  floated  on.  He  must 
rid  himself  of  the  load  if  he  would  face  life  again;  he 
must  sink  it  beneath  the  waters  forever.  Could  he  do 


Il8  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

it?  He  tried;  he  crept  forward,  but  when  he  stretched 
forth  his  hand  it  fell  back  palsied  and  useless.  For  as 
it  hung  above  her,  there  came  a  hush  in  all  the  depths 
about  him  and  a  cloud  concealed  the  moon.  He  had  no 
power  over  it;  that  dead,  inert  mass,  whose  eyes  looked 
on  the  skies  with  the  eloquence  of  supreme  despair,  was 
stronger  than  he. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  night  there  arose  the  friendly 
skeleton  of  a  bridge  flung  across  the  silvered  stream. 
With  a  shudder,  as  the  spell  of  horror  broke  before  this 
human  evidence,  he  leaped  upward  and  clung  among  the 
timbers.  Slowly  the  boat  and  the  Thing  that  lay  with- 
in it  dissolved  into  the  silence  and  the  vagueness  while 
the  silvered  stream  went  on.  Naught  remained  but  this. 
Yet,  as  he  waited  there,  upon  the  air  a  strange,  sad 
cry  came  past  like  bird  on  wings,  and  left  him  trembling 
and  alone.  Something  had  died  in  the  night;  something, 
he  knew  not  what. 


THE  CHALLENGE  ACCEPTED.  119 

CHAPTER   XXV. 
THE  CHALLENGE  ACCEPTED. 

Four  years  after  the  burning  of  Silvy's  cabin  on  the 
margin  of  that  southern  swamp,  in  the  twilight  of  a  late 
spring  evening  the  elevator  of  one  of  the  up  town  hotels 
in  New  York  made  the  ascent  for  a  single  passenger 
who  took  from  the  boy  in  charge  an  unstamped  letter, 
leisurely  fitted  his  key  to  a  door  on  the  fourth  floor  and 
entered  a  small  parlor  that  looked  down  upon  Broad- 
way. He  put  aside  his  light  top  coat,  removing  from  a 
pocket  a  number  of  unopened  letters,  and  took  off  his 
gloves,  glasses  and  hat  with  a  composure  that  amounted 
almost  to  laziness.  He  was  getting  a  chair  in  position 
before  his  reading  table  when  he  turned  with  a  slight 
frown,  as  though  some  irritating  thought  had  for  the 
moment  ruffled  him. 

"Overdone!"  he  said.  Thereupon  he  clad  himself  in 
his  impedimenta  and  went  through  the  process  of  lay- 
ing it  aside  again.  "Better,"  was  his  single  comment 
upon  this.  Then  he  permitted  himself  to  take  his  mail. 
For  an  hour  or  more  he  sat  at  his  table  opening  and 
answering  letters.  From  several  he  took  remittances  of 
checks  or  drafts  and  into  several  placed  bills,  some  of 
them  of  large  denomination.  To  no  letter  did  he  attach 
any  signature,  when  the  letter  received  an  enclosure; 
but  to  such  as  required  acknowledgment  he  attached  the 
name  Robt.  Underbill,  the  opening  phraseology  being 
invariably,  "I  am  instructed  by  'W.'  to  say,"  etc.  He 
made  no  copies  of  his  letters,  but  entered  in  a  little  pocket 
memorandum  book  a  record  of  the  several  amounts  re- 
ceived and  disbursed,  with  a  cipher  note  opposite  each. 
As  he  finished  reading  a  letter,  he  held  it  against  a 
lighted  taper  that  stood  at  his  elbow  and  laid  it,  burning, 
upon  a  little  metal  tray  near-by,  so  that  when  he  reached 
his  last,  that  only  remained  in  sight.  It  was  the  letter 


120  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

that  he  had  received  on  the  elevator.    He  broke  its  seal 
and  opened  it. 

The  manner  of  this  grave,  isolated  agent  had  up  to 
this  moment  been  steadily  deliberate,  but,  at  sight  of  the 
communication  within,  all  of  his  nonchalance  and  com- 
posure disappeared.  That  he  received  it  with  great  sur- 
prise and  read  it  with  intense  interest  was  manifest.  The 
letter  within  was  addressed  to  the  well  known  head  of 
a  detective  bureau,  and  read  as  follows: 

"Ravenswood    . 

"My  Dear  Sir:  I  have  business  of  importance  which  I  wish 
to  intrust  to  the  right  person  and  have  been  advised  by  a  friend 
to  address  a  letter  to  you,  asking  that  you  correspond  with  me 
upon  the  subject.  The  matter  is  not  one  that  can  be  entered 
into  without  a  personal  interview.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see 
and  consult  anyone  you  may  send  to  me,  and  will  hold  myself 
liable  for  all  expenses  and  charges.  I  am,  sir,  with  great  res- 
pect, Your  obedient  servant, 

"CHARLES  MARBEAU. 
"Reference:     Chemical  National  Bank,  New  York  City." 

Across  the  back  of  this  was  a  brief  but  polite  expres- 
sion of  regret  that  the  officer  had  missed  Mr.  Underhill 
and  a  promise  that  he  would  call  at  10  o'clock  next 
morning  upon  the  business  suggested  by  Mr.  Marbeau's 
letter. 

The  reader  of  this  letter  at  length  placed  it  before  him 
upon  the  table  and  regarded  it  with  an  expression  so 
altered  that  he  scarcely  seemed  the  same  man.  The 
name  he  gazed  upon  escaped  his  lips  in  a  whisper: 

"Charles  Marbeau!"  The  brief  communication  seemed 
to  fascinate  him.  He  read  it  over  and  over,  his  mental 
disturbance  increasing  with  each  perusal.  Finally  he 
drew  a  sheet  of  paper  to  him  and  wrote  a  note  stating 
that  "W."  would  be  of  no  assistance  to  Mr.  Marbeau 
and  was  reinclosing  the  Marbeau  letter  with  it,  when 
doubts  again  assailed  him.  He  arose  and  began  to  walk 
the  room,  his  pace  increasing  as  he  reflected,  until,  when 


THE  CHALLENGE  ACCEPTED.  121 

consciousness  of  his  environment  returned,  his  cigar  was 
chewed  to  pieces  and  he  was  moving  to  and  fro  like  a 
caged  animal  upon  the  approach  of  feed  time.  His  ex- 
citement was  further  indicated  by  the  rapid  opening  and 
closing  of  his  hands  and  the  nervous  stroking  of  the  hair 
upon  his  temples.  But  at  length,  as  though  emerging 
from  some  unpleasant  dream,  he  stopped  short,  and 
shook  his  head  angrily. 

"Four  years!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  what  does  it 
amount  to  when  an  accidental  letter  can  undo  all?  It  is 
easier  to  die  to  the  world  than  to  stay  dead!"  With  a 
return  of  his  old  lazy  manner,  he  shut  off  the  light,  drew 
his  chair  to  the  open  window  and  putting  his  feet  upon 
the  casement,  calmly  lit  a  fresh  cigar.  Here  was  a  mat- 
ter to  be  decided,  and  he  could  think  best  alone  and  in 
the  dark.  It  was  a  habit! 

The  hours  passed;  a  steady  spark  burned  at  the  open 
window  against  the  darkness  behind  it,  and  a  slender  coil 
of  smoke  unwound  itself  in  the  outer  air,  spread  into  a 
thin  veil  and  dissolved;  and  still  the  silent  man  reflected. 
But  when,  for  the  second  time  after  midnight,  in  some 
faraway  steeple,  the  hour  was  struck,  and  the  roar  of  life 
in  the  streets  below  sank  to  a  murmur,  he  cast  his  cigar 
outward. 

"I  accept  the  challenge!"  he  said,  with  a  yawn,  and 
slept. 

When  the  murmur  of  life  in  the  great  monster  out- 
side deepened  slowly  to  a  sullen  roar,  and  the  sunlight 
streamed  down  upon  him,  he  was  still  sleeping,  and  this 
is  what  the  sun  beheld:  A  face  as  pallid  as  any  nun's, 
with  that  peculiar  transparent  complexion  sometimes 
born  of  organic  disease,  a  white  mustache  and  fine  white 
hair  clustering  in  ringlets  about  a  well-shaped  head,  dark 
eyebrows  and  eyelashes,  a  mouth  whose  lines  indicated 
both  the  suffering  and  resolution  that  blend  in  melan- 
choly, a  straight,  slender  nose,  a  light,  compact  and  ac- 
tive rather  than  muscular  figure,  and  the  delicate  hands 
and  feet  that  often  come  with  good  blood.  Over  all, 


122  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

more  apparent,  perhaps,  while  the  man  slept,  was  an  air, 
a  suggestion,  that  clung  to,  that  surrounded  him,  which 
would  be  read  differently,  as  the  temperament  and  ex- 
perience of  those  who  might  behold  .it,  varied.  One 
might  term  it  the  aftermath  of  dissipation  and  reform; 
another  the  record  of  night  work  and  great  responsi- 
bilities demanding  mental  effort  without  rest.  And  oth- 
ers, still  looking  back  into  their  own  lives,  would  say 
that,  born  for  one  thing,  fate  had  hurried  this  man  to  its 
opposite  and  left  him  with  all  his  protests  made  visible. 
And  they  would  have  been  the  more  convinced  in  this 
if  at  the  moment  he  opened  his  eyes,  which  he  did  when 
seven  o'clock  rang  from  so  many  brazen  throats,  they 
had  been  looking  closely.  At  that  moment  these  were 
simply  pale  gray,  paler  than  the  coldest  sky  of  winter, 
and  lusterless.  The  change  came  when  resolution  super- 
seded consciousness.  When  he  arose  and  returned  to 
the  letter  upon  his  desk  all  estimates  would  have  been 
changed.  That  which  makes  the  man,  at  last,  had  come 
back  into  the  casket,  and  nowhere  did  the  change  show 
so  strongly  as  in  the  then  wide-open  eyes,  for  in  them 
burned  a  flame  so  distinct,  so  electrical,  that  no  one 
could  view  them  once  and  say  that  aught  of  his  powers 
was  dissipated,  or  that  mental  pressure  had  consumed 
his  nervous  force,  or  that  fate  had  laid  upon  him  burdens 
greater  than  could  be  borne  in  triumph.  The  light  that 
rose  and  fell  therein  was  not  reflected,  but  direct,  a  ray 
projected,  its  intensity  dependent  upon  the  mental  ac- 
tivity beyond.  This  effect  was  heightened  by  two  condi- 
tions, the  darkness  of  brow  and  lashes,  and  the  pallor  of 
the  face. 

But  as  he  stood  over  the  smoking  letter  in  its  tray, 
the  letter  last  written,  the  expression  of  his  face  and 
eyes  was  marked  and  pathetic,  for  the  light  that  gleamed 
so  strongly  the  moment  before,  now  shrunk  to  a  mere 
glow  seen  dimly  under  the  drooping  lids.  Whatever 
was  the  thought,  it  passed  and  the  man  was  again  cold, 
calm  and  alert.  He  glanced  about  the  room;  everything 


THE  CHALLENGE  ACCEPTED.  123 

was  in  order.  On  the  desk  not  a  scrap  of  paper  was  to 
be  seen.  The  daily  records  of  his  life  were  written  in, 
except  to  him,  undecipherable  language  upon  the  pages 
of  a  book  a  few  inches  long;  and — in  that  mysterious 
chamber  lit  by  the  flame  that  lit  his  eyes. 

Taking  his  letters  he  passed  to  the  inner  room.  An 
hour  later,  upon  the  elevator,  he  said  to  the  boy  in 
charge: 

"A  gentleman  will  call  to  see  me  at  10  o'clock.  Let 
him  into  my  parlor  and  say  that  I  will  be  detained  a  half 
hour." 


124  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER   XXVI. 
THE  INFORMATION  BUREAU. 

The  four  years  that  had  passed  over  Chilon  Marbeau 
since  he  floated  upon  a  moonlit  river  with  the  corpse  of 
his  benefactress  facing  him  in  the  boat,  had  left  a  clear 
imprint  upon  his  mental  and  his  physical  constitution. 
Physically  he  was  improved,  for  freedom  and  diversity 
of  scenes  and  occupation  had  done  much  to  restore  what 
confinement  had  effaced.  His  frame  was  again  erect,  his 
step  firm  and  confident,  and  in  that  unfathomable  air 
which  distinguishes  each  individual  from  his  fellows  there 
was  something  even  of  the  spirit  that  marked  his  young- 
er manhood.  But  mentally  he  was  neither  the  boy  who 
went  blindly  to  his  fate  nor  the  man  who  came  back  to 
Ravenswood,  passionate,  impotent,  unreasoning  and 
fevered  by  desire  for  revenge.  That  man,  too,  was  dead ; 
the  last  stepping  stone  for  the  new  man  who  came  with 
one  object  in  life;  but  calmer,  colder,  more  determined 
and  consistent,  careless  of  danger  and  ready  to  sacrifice 
everything  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  He  now  had  but 
one  ambition,  the  finding  of  Carl  Garner. 

It  cannot  be  said  of  Chilon  that  at  this  time  he  had 
absolutely  no  thought  of  the  years  at  Ravenswood  and 
of  Lena.  He  had  bitter  memories  that  came  in  the  night 
time  and  kept  their  vigils  even  as  he  slept;  but  habit 
had  helped  him  to  conquer  these,  for,  come  when  they 
might,  he  resolutely  turned  his  back  upon  them  before 
they  enslaved  his  will  and  found  in  action,  quick,  cease- 
less action,  a  foil.  The  old  dream  of  love,  he  realized, 
was  impossible.  He  felt  that  Lena  could  never,  would 
never,  clasp  the  hand  that  had  murdered  her  husband, 
hated  and  despised  even  though  he  had  been.  For  her 
the  past  must  have  been  reduced  to  one  night  and  a 
chamber  of  horrors. 

Remorse  he  had  known  until  his  mind  reacted,  and 


THE  INFORMATION  BUREAU.  125 

renewed  health  filled  his  blood  with  the  elements  of 
strength.  That  dead  face  looked  into  his  for  many 
weeks,  but  the  time  came  when  that,  too,  passed.  He 
still  felt  that  the  acts  of  one  crazed  by  fever,  controlled 
by  a  mental  suggestion  emanating  from  another,  and 
dazed  by  drugs,  carried  no  responsibility.  But  he  knew, 
also,  that  no  statement  of  these  causes  could  remove  from 
the  mind  of  the  woman  he  had  loved  the  impression  of 
that  night's  bloody  work.  He  had  sworn  to  kill  Richard 
Marbeau  if  they  met.  They  had  met,  and  Richard  was 
dead.  She  would  not  split  hairs  over  the  mental  con- 
dition of  his  murderer.  The  certainty  that  such  a  crime 
was  possible  to  him  under  any  conditions  would  be  suf- 
ficient. 

He  put  aside  that  part  of  his  life  as  best  he  could 
and  took  up  his  mission  with  a  fierce  but  quiet  satisfac- 
tion. When  the  object  of  all  this  effort  was  accom- 
plished, and  Carl  Garner  had  suffered  for  his  crimes, 
then  he  would  go  back  to  Ravenswood  and  call  a  family 
convocation.  In  the  presence  of  his  kindred  he  would 
tell  his  story  proudly  and  exhibit  such  proofs  as  he  might 
gather.  Then  he  would  go  away;  where,  he  had  never 
determined.  That  one  hour  of  satisfaction  was  all  the 
reward  he  desired,  and  to  gain  it  he  had  bent,  and  was 
bending,  every  energy  and  every  talent  that  he  could 
bring  into  play. 

There  is  no  need  in  this  history  to  follow  Chilon  Mar- 
beau  after  his  wild  flight  from  Ravenswood.  A  lumber 
vessel  bore  him  to  Norway;  another  brought  him  to 
New  York.  Sustained  by  less  than  a  keen  sense  of  his 
wrongs  and  the  losses  he  had  incurred,  he  might  have 
run  the  gamut  of  crime  and  have  become  linked  to  the 
irredeemables.  He  did  indeed  mix  with  them;  he  made 
his  life  among  them,  finding  several  whom  he  had  once 
known,  without  revealing  his  history!  but  in  that  direc- 
tion lay  his  life's  work.  He  began  in  that  field,  not  the 
study  of  crime,  but  of  criminals,  and  had  the  good  fortune 
to  bring  about  the  arrest  of  a  noted  absconder,  and  find 


126  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

himself  in  funds  again;  for  Silvy's  little  savings  were 
well  nigh  exhausted.  In  this  arrest  he  was  not  known; 
he  simply  pointed  out  the  criminal.  Other  successes 
upon  the  same  line  followed,  the  credit  going  elsewhere, 
while  he  kept  in  the  background.  Publicity  would  have 
destroyed  his  opportunities  and  have  endangered  his 
main  object;  for  the  plan  that  Chilon  had  gradually 
evolved,  acting  upon  the  suggestions  of  his  accidental 
success,  was  an  acquaintance  with  the  skilled  criminals 
of  America,  either  personal  or  through  agents. 

Chilon  Marbeau  had  no  ambition  to  be  a  detective, 
nor  was  he  ever  one.  The  business  that  he  built  up 
with  marvelous  skill  was  based  simply  upon  business 
principles  and  deep  insight  into  human  nature.  It  was 
a  business  that  would  have  been  successful,  administered 
with  equal  genius,  in  any  country  and  any  age.  He 
had  no  induction  theory  like  delightful  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes,  nor  did  he  believe  that  every  crime  leaves  its 
marks  by  which  the  guilty  can  be  identified.  He  knew 
on  the  contrary,  that  the  majority  of  criminals,  pursued 
by  the  best  detectives  the  world  over,  escape  the  law, 
and  that  great  robberies  are  simply  the  outcome  of  ex- 
perience gained  in  safety.  His  system  was  to  keep  in 
touch  with  the  criminal  society  of  all  great  cities,  begin- 
ning with  New  York,  through  those  secret  lines  of  crim- 
inal news  current  in  all  the  under  circles.  He  had  dis- 
covered that  always  at  least  one  man  not  actually  en- 
gaged therein  knew  the  principals  in  every  great  pre- 
meditated crime,  either  before  or  after  its  commission. 
He  knew  also  that  men  who  will  rob  banks  and  rich  dwell- 
ing houses,  and  murder  to  escape  arrest,  need  money, 
and  when  men  of  that  character  need  money  it  was  with 
them  a  question  simply  of  how  to  get  it  without  arous- 
ing suspicion  in  their  own  circles  against  themselves.  He 
discovered  also  that  the  theory  of  "honor  among  thieves" 
was  a  fiction,  born  largely  of  the  yellow  back  novels,  and 
did  not  exist  except,  apparently,  in  the  division  of  spoils, 
and  that  then  the  absolute  necessity  of  leaving  every 


THE  INFORMATION  BUREAU.  127 

sharer  satisfied  was  the  controlling  motive;  that  even 
principals  in  crime  were  ready,  for  a  consideration-,  to 
give  up  valuable  information. 

In  brief  the  system  was  simply  a  bureau  for  the  safe 
and  profitable  handling  of  information  bearing  upon 
crime.  It  was  not  a  system  planned  in  advance,  but 
one  that  developed,  in  which  few  men  engaged  knew 
more  than  one  other  man  therein,  or  that  there  was  any 
other  besides  his  principal;  or  that  even  such  a  system 
existed  outside  his  own  little  entourage.  The  informer 
who  received  a  rich  reward  for  his  information  himself 
became  soon  a  quiet  searcher  with  underworkers,  there 
being  go-betweens  all  the  way  down. 

Not  many  of  this  secret  order,  whose  ramifications  ex- 
tended into  most  great  centers  of  population,  had  ever 
seen  or  heard  of  Chilon  Marbeau,  or  Robert  Underhill, 
as  he  chose  to  be  known.  In  the  earlier  days  of  the  busi- 
ness, in  order  to  avoid  contact  with  the  authorities,  he 
kept  himself  as  much  in  the  background  as  was  possible. 
As  the  head  and  front  of  it,  attention  would  necessarily  be 
attracted  toward  him ;  but  not  so  if  he  was  the  agent  only 
of  the  highest  power.  And  this  great  imaginary  unknown 
he  veiled  under  the  simple  initial  "W.,"  a  letter  that  had 
for  all  members  of  his  family  a  peculiar  significance. 

But  Chilon  was  the  head  and  front,  the  man  who  at 
last  made  the  exchange  of  knowledge  for  money  and 
passed  the  larger  part,  sometimes  all,  to  the  proper  per- 
son. His  custom  in  these  matters  was  rigid;  every  man 
who  dealt  with  him  was  known  only  by  a  number  which 
was  signed  to  his  communication,  and  as  money,  and  not 
drafts,  were  remitted  back  through  the  mails,  no  clue 
was  left.  The  safety  of  this  plan,  and  the  good  faith,  skill 
and  honesty  of  its  head,  made  the  business  profitable 
for  those  engaged  in  it. 

In  this  enterprise,  Chilon,  in  the  background,  received 
no  notice  from  the  press.  But  if  no  advertisement  of  his 
work  went  abroad,  the  people  who  make  the  study  of 
crime  a  business  appreciated  his  skill  and  mysterious  pow- 


128  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

er.  The  bureaux  that  exist  for  the  detection  of  criminals 
knew  him  in  a  business  way  without  knowing  even  that 
he  possessed  an  established  system,  or  whom  he  repre- 
sented, and  were  well  satisfied  always  by  the  credit  of 
success  and  a  portion  of  the  rewards  earned.  The  few 
people  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  in  his  business 
were  too  sensible  to  even  admit  of  his  existence. 

Some  of  Chilon's  performances  along  his  chosen  line 
were,  to  even  the  detective  bureau,  simply  marvelous.  At 
six  o'clock  one  afternoon  he  addressed  a  note  to  a  police 
chief  informing  him  that  a  certain  bank  would  be  attacked 
at  one  o'clock  after  midnight.  The  bank  was  watched,  and 
burglars  arrested.  On  another  occasion  the  mur- 
der of  a  prominent  official  in  New  England  was  fol- 
lowed the  next  afternoon  by  the  arrest  of  the  criminal  in 
New  York.  A  great  financial  institution  was  told  that  its 
bookkeeper  was  "short."  An  entire  counterfeiting  outfit 
was  seized  before  the  plates  had  been  used ;  and  an  insur- 
ance company  that  contemplated  paying  a  death  loss  run- 
ning up  to  half  a  hundred  thousand  received  information 
of  the  existence  of  the  alleged  defunct  policy  holder.  But 
his  greatest  coup  was  the  finding  of  a  bank  officer  who 
had,  without  the  public  hearing  of  it,  carried  away  nearly 
the  entire  assets  of  his  institution.  Within  a  week  the 
matter  was  compromised  and  the  institution,  the  stock 
of  which  contained  a  personal  liability  clause,  was  saved. 
For  this  he  received  a  sum  so  large  as  to  place  him  with 
his  savings  beyond  the  reach  of  want,  and  enable  him  to 
save  his  under  agents  from  crime  through  necessity. 


HOME  YEARNING.  129 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
HOME  YEARNING. 

In  the  prosecution  of  this  work  Chilon  found  excite- 
ment and  occupation  but  not  what  he  worked  for  above 
all  things — Carl  Garner.  The  man,  bold  and  skillful  as 
he  knew  him  to  be,  ought,  in  the  years  he  had  watched, 
to  come  to  the  surface  somewhere.  But  no  arrest  in  the 
United  States,  in  all  that  time,  furnished  the  slightest 
trace  of  Carl  Garner.  No  photograph  of  any  gallery  of 
rogues  held  his  face  since  the  crime,  for  which  he  had 
been  imprisoned,  was  expiated.  That  he  had  been  re- 
formed was  impossible;  men  of  his  temperament  never 
reform.  He  was  dead  or  in  some  state  prison,  or  had 
left  the  country.  So  Chilon  reasoned.  Garner's  convic- 
tion had  been  accomplished  in  Chicago;  if  still  in  the 
United  States  he  should  be  found  in  New  York  or  Phila- 
delphia, for  men  of  his  tastes  and  history  would  not  be 
content  anywhere  else.  Chilon's  watch  upon  these  two 
cities  had  been  close  and  he  had  for  his  assistants  the 
whole  detective  and  police  system  of  both.  Not  the  slight- 
est trace  of  Carl  Garner  could  be  found. 

These  were  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and  his  en- 
vironment, when  Chilon  gave  the  greater  part  of  that  May 
night  to  thought.  He  had,  when  he  accepted  the  chal- 
lenge of  fate,  determined  to  risk  an  interview  with  Charles 
Marbeau,  his  uncle.  Before  doing  this,  however,  he  had 
already  determined  to  take  a  greater  risk  and  forever 
put  at  rest  any  doubt  as  to  the  thoroughness  of  his  own 
disguise.  Time  had  given  him  great  confidence  in  the 
changes  that  had  been  wrought  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance. He  had  been  in  the  presence  of  more  than  one  who 
had  known  him,  without  attracting  notice,  and  one  of 
these  was  a  detective  who  had  testified  in  his  trial.  The 
chief  representative  of  the  secret  service  of  the  United 

9 


130  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

States,  who  had  been  present  at  that  trial,  was  now  occu- 
pying a  commanding  position  in  the  same  branch  of  gov- 
ernment service  at  Washington,  and  the  determination 
he  had  arrived  at  was  to  place  himself  in  a  business  way 
before  this  man.  He  had  carefully  gone  over  every  feat- 
ure of  his  case  as  he  sat  at  the  window,  and  he  felt  assured 
that  with  sufficient  nerve  to  back  him,  he  could  not  be 
identified,  even  if  suspected.  The  worst  that  could  hap- 
pen to  him,  if  he  did  not  break  down,  would  be  a  tem- 
porary inconvenience.  There  was  but  one  weak  point  in 
his  defense — his  handwriting.  He  could  not  recall  any 
specimen  of  his  handwriting  in  existence  within  reach  of 
the  government,  except  his  prison  signature,  and  the 
statement  filed  upon  his  trial.  If  he  emerged  successfully 
from  the  conflict  in  Washington  he  would  continue  south- 
ward. 

Chilon  had  a  definite  and  important  object  in  making 
the  second  venture.  The  sight  of  the  well-known  hand- 
writing of  his  uncle  had  brought  a  rush  of  memories  that 
almost  overwhelmed  him.  He  gave  way  to  it  for  once; 
as  he  faced  the  stars,  smoking  in  that  open  window,  his 
mind  recalled  the  old  house  and  all  its  lovely  surround- 
ings. It  was  May,  the  roses  were  blooming  and  the  lilies 
were  opening  on  the  lake.  All  the  grand  old  trees  were 
green  again  and  vocal  with  the  songs  of  birds.  The  smell 
of  magnolias  seemed  to  float  in  upon  and  disarm  him. 
What  were  they  all  doing  down  there?  Who  were  there? 
Was  Lena?  His  heart  leaped  once  more  at  the  sugges- 
tion. And  if  she  were,  could  he  face  her?  He  did  not 
know.  It  would  be  a  test,  indeed.  She  must,  if  suspicious 
of  his  identity,  remain  in  doubt,  if  he  showed  no  sign; 
and  he  would  show  none.  But  it  was  not  likely  that  the 
house  which  contained  the  memory  of  that  tragedy  would 
be  her  home  again.  And  yet,  perhaps  she  was  there;  he 

might  go  and  stand  and  see  her  face  again, .     He 

turned,  however,  from  the  thought,  resolutely.  If  that 
were  all,  he  would  not  go  back.  But  there  was  more.  He 


HOME  YEARNING.  I31 

had  often  been  doubtful  of  his  course  should  he  ever 
meet  Carl  Garner.  He  did  not  desire  to  stain  his  hands 
with  the  man's  blood.  His  intention  was  to  consign  him 
to  the  fate  he  himself  had  endured,  and,  to  this  end,  he 
had  accumulated  a  store  of  counterfeit  bills.  When  ar- 
rest should  be  made  these  bills  would  be  found  in  Gar- 
ner's possession  and  under  the  circumstances  which  had 
caused  his  friend's  ruin,  he  would  go  to  a  living  death. 
In  the  consummation  of  this  scheme  he  saw  poetic  jus- 
tice, and  it  was  perfect  even  in  another  way.  When,  with 
Garner,  he  stopped  at  Silvy's  cabin,  the  former  had  given 
to  her  one  of  the  bills  just  printed.  In  the  savings  of  the 
old  negress  Chilon  had  found  that  bill. 

This  bill  should  be  the  instrument  of  his  conviction.  It 
was  the  last  cent  he  had  saved  of  her  little  hoard. 

But  this  justice,  though  poetic,  was  commonplace,  and 
with  his  new  profession  had  come  a  pride.  His  return 
for  the  injury  should  be  more  perfect,  and  would,  he  be- 
lieved, have  a  potent  effect  if  ever  he  made  an  effort  to 
remove  the  shadow  from  his  life;  he  desired  to  go  to 
Ravenswood  for  the  plates.  With  them  again  in  his  pos- 
session, he  would  wreak  a  revenge  when  the  time  came 
that  would  leave  nothing  to  be  desired.  His  mind  was 
made  up  when  he  burned  the  letter. 

When  Chilon  returned  to  his  room  at  the  appointed 
hour  he  paused  at  the  door,  his  hand  upon  the  knob.  He 
bore  with  him  a  letter.  In  his  efforts  to  undo  nature's 
work  in  his  own  case  he  had  for  four  years  attacked  im- 
pulse as  his  most  dangerous  foe.  In  the  analysis  of  him- 
self and  the  causes  that  led  up  to  his  ruin,  he  readily  rec- 
ognized that  the  acts  done  under  impulse  were  the  begin- 
ning of  all  his  troubles.  As  he  stood  by  the  door,  balanc- 
ing the  letter  in  his  hand,  his  face  grave  and  stern  again, 
he  asked  himself  the  test  question,  "Is  this  from  impulse?" 
He  debated  both  sides  of  the  question  in  silence;  was  he 
really  advancing  the  cause  for  which  he  had  labored  so 
long?  Was  he  not  risking  all  for  something  that  was  not 


132  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

essential  to  the  success  of  his  plans?  Were  not  the  plates 
safer  at  Ravensvvood  than  anywhere  else?  Suppose  Gar- 
ner had  been  spotted,  might  he  not  then  go  for  and  obtain 
the  plates?  And  was  it  wise  to  awaken  the  watchdogs  of 
the  treasury?  "Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,"  came  to  his  mind. 
On  the  other  hand  the  plates  might  never  again  be  ac- 
cessible. He  lost  his  opportunity  four  years  ago  in  those 
few  weeks  of  passionate  despair,  and  this  was  the  first  that 
had  appeared  since.  His  uncle  might  die,  the  property 
change  hands,  and  the  rubbish  be  cleared  away.  It  was 
a  contingency  that  had  worried  him  not  a  little.  He 
would  make  the  venture. 

But  again  the  little  mentor  within  asked  a  question. 
He  did  not  reply.  Opening  the  door,  he  entered  his 
room. 


WAKING  THE  SLEEPING  DOGS.  133 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
WAKING  THE  SLEEPING  DOGS. 

Chilon  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  small,  quiet 
man  who  wore  glasses  and  looked  like  a  chief  clerk.  They 
had  met  before.  Their  greetings  were  stiff  and  formal. 

"We  received  your  letter,"  said  Chilon,  simply,  "but 
are  at  a  loss  to  know  why  we  should  have  been  applied 

"I  know,  Mr.  Underbill,"  the  other  replied,  smiling, 
"you  keep  no  information  unused;  you  have  no  force  to 
call  upon  for  detail  work.  You  have  repeatedly  told  us 
that.  But  we  are  extremely  anxious  to  oblige  Mr.  Mar- 
beau  in  this  matter  and  are  taking  all  the  chances.  Your 
friend,  'W,'  has  done  so  many  surprising  things  that  we 
simply  cannot  neglect  him.  If  he  says  no,  why  that  ends 
it;  but  he  has  not  said  no,  yet.''  Chilon  studied  the  face 
of  his  visitor.  There  was  nothing  behind  the  statement; 
he  had  none  but  the  facts  as  stated. 

"What  is  the  case?"  he  asked,  at  length.  The  visitor 
seemed  relieved,  and  drew  his  chair  to  the  window, 
at  the  same  time  producing  his  memoranda. 

"Mr.  Marbeau,"  he  began,  "is  a  very  warm  friend  of 
our  friends  here  and  they  have  made  us  an  urgent  appeal 
in  his  behalf.  The  case  is  simply  one  of  disappearance. 
He  quarreled  with  his  nephew  seventeen  years  ago  and 
the  latter  left  home,  and  has  not  been  heard  of  since.  He 
is  now  extremely  anxious  to  find  him." 

"Why  does  he  wish  to  find  him?" 

"That,  we  have  not  ascertained.  Mr.  Marbeau,  or  Col- 
onel Marbeau,  as  he  is  called,  is  one  of  the  old  school 
southerners,  impractical  and  chivalrous,  the  soul  of  honor 
and  always  wrong  in  politics — about  as  difficult  a  man 
to  do  business  with  as  one  can  imagine,  from  what  1 
hear.  We  sent  our  ablest  man  to  him,  and  his  report 
reads  like  an  adventure." 


134  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"What  possible  cause  could  there  be  for  the  young 
man's  silence  if  he  is  not  dead  or  in  prison?'' 

"That  is  what  we  asked,  and  that  question  brought  on 
the  storm,"  continued  the  visitor,  laughing.  "The  old 
gentleman  raved  over  the  idiocy  of  his  New  York  friends 
who  had  sent  a  man  a  thousand  miles  at  his  expense  to 
insult  him.  He  declared  that  whatever  justification  there 
might  be  in  the  theory  of  his  nephew's  death,  there  could 
be  none  in  a  theory  of  crime;  that  the  young  man,  while 
wild  and  high-tempered,  was  the  soul  of  honor — or  he 
wouldn't  have  been  a  Marbeau." 

"Well,"  said  Chilon,  coldly,  "I  fail  to  see  anything 
humorous  in  that.  What  progress  have  you  made?" 

"Absolutely  none."    Chilon  thought  a  moment. 

"And  the  name  of  this  boy?" 

"Was  Chilon." 

"Married?" 

"He  had  been." 

"Wife  living?"  His  heart  almost  stood  still  under  the 
strain  placed  upon  it. 

"That  we  did  not  ascertain.  She  obtained  a  divorce 
and  remarried." 

"I  see!"  And  then,  after  a  moment's  thought — "I  have 
written  your  people  a  letter  which  I  wish  to  deliver  here. 
I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  read  it.  You  will  understand 
why  I  have  interrupted  you  in  the  other  matter."  The 
visitor,  much  surprised,  opened  the  letter,  which  was  ad- 
dressed to  his  agency.  It  stated  the  past  services  of  "W 
and  asked  that  an  opinion  upon  the  bill  inclosed  be  ob- 
tained from  the  treasury  at  Washington.  It  also  stated 
that  if  the  bill  were  counterfeit  it  would  mark  the  begin- 
ning of  one  of  the  most  important  cases  undertaken  by 
the  treasury.  The  writer,  it  added,  had  information  which 
could  not  be  imparted  to  the  Treasury  as  yet,  but  might 
some  day. 

The  visitor  looked  carefully  upon  the  bill  and  then  the 
man. 


WAKING  THE  SLEEPING  DOGS.  135 

"But  it  is  not  counterfeit!"  he  said. 

"It  is,  however.  The  best  counterfeit  the  world  has 
ever  seen!"  The  interest  of  the  professional  was  now 
fully  aroused.  If  this  were  true — if  this  new  bill 
were  indeed  counterfeit,  it  meant  business  of  the  highest 
order. 

"Have  you  got  the  men  spotted?"  he  asked,  suppressing 
his  eagerness. 

"The  reason  why  I  have  brought  up  this  matter,"  said 
Chilon,  disregarding  the  question,  "is  this:  If  the  Treas- 
ury cares  to  see  me,  I  shall  go  south  from  Washington  for 
a  few  weeks  upon  business  and  for  recreation  and  will  call 
on  Mr.,  or  Colonel  Marbeau,  in  person — to  oblige  you.  I 
can  then  determine  if  anything  may  be  done." 

"The  Treasury  will  want  to  see  you,  Mr.  Underbill." 
The  detective  smiled  over  some  thought  that  had  risen 
in  mind,  a  smile  that  did  not  escape  Chilon.  "I  am  greatly 
obliged  by  your  decision  to  let  this  matter  come  up 
through  us.  I  think  that  you  will  be  wired  for  to-morrow ! 
And  in  the  case  of  Colonel  Marbeau  you  have  taken  a 
load  off  my  mind.  You  will  hear  from  me !" 

Chilon  stood  a  moment,  looking  at  the  closed  door. 

"What  will  be  the  end?"  he  asked  himself.  For  reply 
the  door  reopened  and  the  visitor  looked  in. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Underbill,  did  you  get  a  report  from 
us  in  the  old  Garner  case?" 

"No." 

"You  will,  then.  Carl  Adams,  or  Grant,  was  in 
New  York  a  week  ago.  He  disappeared  again,  but  we 
think  we  can  reach  him." 

A  cry,  half  uttered,  half  suppressed,  rang  out  in  the 
room.  Instantly,  however,  Chilon  stood  calm  and  white. 
He  saw  the  astonishment  in  the  face  that  was  turned  to 
him.  With  a  slight  gesture  he  concluded  carelessly: 

"Add  one  thousand  dollars  to  the  reward." 


136  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
THE  DEPARTURE. 

Chilon  stood  to  depart  from  an  uptown  school  of 
acting,  his  friend,  the  professor,  swinging  his  glasses  be- 
tween two  fingers  and  speaking  with  animation : 

"I  have  found  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Underhill,  the  most 
conscientious,  the  most  satisfactory  pupil  to  whom  I  have 
ever  given  voice  culture.  Your  attendance  upon  the  gym- 
nasium, your  daily  open  air  exercise,  your  work  here 
have  all  been  perfect,  your  attention  scrupulous  and  your 
efforts  gratifying.  You  ask  my  opinion  of  the  results; 
well,  I  give  it  with  pleasure.  Your  control  of  voice  is  re- 
markable; in  your  recitation  and  reading  of  those  selec- 
tions which  call  for  deliberation — and — eh — eh — a  sort  of 
lassitude, — give  me  the  word; — I  mean  the  opposite  of 
nervous  haste, — your  delivery  there  is  simply  marvelous. 
In  other  respects  you  are  beyond  praise.  In  short,  while 
you,  of  course,  lack  the  dramatic  training,  I  think  that  I 
may  say  no  man  on  the  American  stage  has  better  control 
of  his  voice.  As  for  the  voice  itself,  there  are  few  like  it. 
You  southerners " 

"You  still  persist  in  that  opinion,  I  see.  You  make  me 
southern  nolens  volens!" 

"Excellent,  my  dear  Mr.  Underhill.  That  tone,  that  ex- 
pression! You  are  giving  me  back  my  training!  But 
pardon  me ;  I  did  not  intend  to  intrude.  I  will  finish  my 
sentence  another  way.  Generally  speaking,  the  cold  cli- 
mate of  the  north  seems  to  make  taut  the  vocal  chords 
by  contracting  the  muscles  that  engage  them;  and  all 
northern  nations  show  the  effect  in  their  voices.  The 
southerners,  however,  have  naturally  that  which  we  find 
so  hard  to  teach  others,  perfect  relaxation  of  all  the 
muscles  of  neck,  throat  and  mouth.  Their  bronchial  sys- 
tem being  generally  perfect  they  make  good  subjects, 


THE  DEPARTURE.  137 

The  very  best  of  them,  I  think,  are  of  French  extraction, 
who  unite  with  this  general  muscular  relaxation  a  nervous 
force  and  quickness  that  fits  them  for  dramatic  work. 
Of  course  there  are  exceptions,"  he  quickly  added,  with 
fine  tact,  fancying  that  a  shade  of  annoyance  showed 
upon  his  pupil's  face;  "northern  people  occasionally  come 
to  me  well  equipped;  but  the  heredity  of  such  as  I  have 
traced,  leads  back  into  southern  blood." 

"And  now,"  said  Chilon,  extending  his  hand,  "I  am  off 
for  a  bit  of  travel  and  must  say  good-bye.  If  some  day 
you  hear  that  I  am  charming  the  fickle  public  for  a  few 
brief  weeks  as  Monte  Cristo,  or  Dundreary,  you  will,  I 
know,  be  pleased.  And  if  you  do  not  hear  anything,  con- 
sole yourself  with  the  reflection  that  you  have  made  life 
pleasanter  for  me.  But,  by  the  way,  we  were  speaking 
some  time  ago  of  the  possibilities  of  the  human  voice; 
would  it  be  possible  for  a  man  to  so  change  his  voice  and 
voice-tones  as  to  deceive  his  best  friends, — even  his  own 
family?" 

"Yes!  If  his  whole  personal  appearance  were  changed, 
it  would  be  possible;  but  if  his  outer  disguise  were  not 
perfect  it  would  be  next  to  impossible.  It  would  require 
visible  changes  so  extensive  and  complete  as  to  prevent 
the  accidental  reversion  to  old  voice-tones  and  accents 
from  setting  up  a  connection  with  his  true  self  in  the  mem- 
ory of  his  friends.  But,  if  you  are  going  to  try  such  an 
experiment,  don't  use  the  voice  in  song.  You  must  leave 
off  your  singing  for  the  time  being.  No  man  can  change 
his  voice  beyond  discovery  in  singing."  They  parted,  and 
speaking  to  himself,  as  he  watched  the  retreating  form  of 
his  late  pupil,  the  professor  concluded:  "I  should  like  to 
know  the  name  of  the  character  he  has  been  acting  for, 
the  last  year!" 

But  the  actor's  mind  was  upon  other  things.  It  was 
to  be  his  last  day  in  New  York  for  an  indefinite  period. 
The  Treasury  had  sent  him  an  urgent  call.  A  down-town 
car  landed  him  near  the  United  States  Court,  where  he 


138  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

soon  stood  waiting.  His  quiet  dignity  and  self-possession 
secured  him  prompt  attention. 

"I  desire,"  he  said,  in  the  calm,  gentle  voice  that  was 
everywhere  a  guarantee  of  courteous  treatment,  "to  look 
at  the  papers  in  the  case  of  Carl  Garner,  convicted  in 

this  court  on  the day of  counterfeiting,  if  they 

can  be  conveniently  reached."  He  presented  a  card  that 
bore  a  penciled  open  sesame  as  he  spoke.  The  files  were 
soon  found  and  the  papers  placed  upon  a  desk  for  his  ex- 
amination. As  he  sat  with  his  back  to  the  office  force  he 
apparently  made  notes  of  the  trial,  and  then  with  thanks 
passed  back  the  package,  neatly  tied,  and  with  "good- 
morning,  gentlemen,"  took  his  departure. 

"Life  would  be  endurable,"  said  a  voice  from  a  mass  of 
papers,  as  Chilon  disappeared,  "if  all  men  were  like  that. 
Actually  tied  up  the  papers  with  a  bow  knot.  Think  of 
it!" 

"Too  polite!"  The  rejoinder  was  from  a  veteran. 
"Chances  are  the  government  has  lost  a  paper!" 

Chilon  had  just  time  to  catch  the  Washington  express 
from  Jersey  City,  where  his  baggage  had  already  been 
sent.  He  soon  stood  oblivious  to  his  company  on  the  for- 
ward deck  of  the  ferry  boat.  Something  had  oppressed 
him  since  the  waking  hour.  DelicateV  sensitive  to 
influences,  he  was  almost  a  believer  in  the  theory  of  men- 
tal telegraphy.  Many  times  during  the  four  years  of  dis- 
cipline and  struggle  through  which  he  had  passed  he  had 
been  sensible  in  advance  of  important  events,  a  thing 
laughed  at  by  many  practical  men  who  are  unable  to  give 
an  explanation  for  less  than  half  the  decisions  they  form 
in  business.  The  feeling  was  strong  upon  him  that  day. 
He  had,  however,  ample  cause  for  it;  despite  the  philo- 
sophic deliberateness  of  his  movements,  he  had  within  the 
previous  twenty-four  hours  formed  a  momentous  decis- 
ion, and  was  severing  old  ties  again.  Besides,  he  was 
venturing  upon  dangerous  grounds,  and  he  was  at  last 
ready  to  admit  that  his  judgment  was  not  satisfied.  It 


THE  DEPARTURE.  139 

was  too  late,  however,  to  turn  back — even  if  he  had  so 
desired.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  document;  read  it 
curiously, — tore  it  into  infinitesimals  and  gave  it  to  the 
ocean  breeze.  The  shiny  bits  of  paper  sailed  and  dipped 
in  whirling  air,  sinking  one  by  one  and  blending  in  the 
foamy  water. 

The  hoarse  shriek  of  the  boat's  whistle  recalled  him 
from  his  dream,  and  he  looked  up  to  behold  a  steamship 
veering  off  in  front,  its  funnels  pouring  out  volumes  of 
black,  volcanic  smoke.  A  hundred  faces  looked  down 
upon  him  and  handkerchiefs  waved  in  the  air  towards  the 
distant  dock  where  parting  friends  still  gave  their  fare- 
wells. But  for  him  there  was  no  friend  behind,  in  front 
nor  beside  him;  and  yet  he  was  crossing  a  gulf  wider 
than  the  ocean  and  facing  a  danger  worse  than  death. 
From  what  shores  had  his  bark  of  life  been  sailing  so 
long,  so  stormily?  To  what  harbor  would  it  return?  Or 
would  it  sink  in  the  depths,  leaving  no  sign? 

Little  tugs  rushed  to  and  fro  over  the  blue  waters,  and 
white  sails  were  fading  into  the  haze  of  the  bay  like  child- 
hood dreams  half  seen  upon  awaking.  The  white  sunlight 
fell  upon  and  glorified  the  liberty  goddess  on  Bedloe's  Is- 
land; life,  color  and  motion  filled  the  scene.  He  felt 
rather  than  observed  all  these;  he  was  facing  southward 
again,  and  he  was  unsatisfied.  He  cast  one  farewell,  im- 
patient look  about  him ;  the  scene  had  changed  in  a  mo- 
ment. Or  was  it  his  mood?  The  tall  buildings  across  the 
river  behind  stood  like  monuments;  some,  seen  from  the 
rear,  bare  of  decorations,  seemed  prisons;  and  silence 
overhung  them  all.  Down  the  river  the  black  mass  of  the 
passing  ocean  liner  with  its  volumes  of  smoke  had  ob- 
scured the  goddess.  The  oracles  would  have  bid  him  turn 
back;  but  in  this  age  men  believe  chiefly  in  themselves! 


140  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  DUEL. 

When  Chilon,  upon  the  morning  after  his  arrival  in 
Washington,  entered  the  presence  of  the  government's 
representative  in  the  secret  service  division  of  the  Treas- 
ury, returned  the  courteous  greeting  accorded  him,  slowly 
put  aside  his  coat  and  hat  and  drew  off  his  gloves,  he  had 
very  much  the  appearance  of  a  duelist  making  his  last 
preparations  for  conflict.  He  felt,  without  observing  the 
keen,  close  questioning  scrunity  to  which  he  was  being 
subjected ;  he  knew  that  the  examination  was  being  made, 
if  for  the  reason  only  that  had  their  positions  been  re- 
versed, he  would  have  seized  eagerly  upon  the  oppor- 
tunity as  the  only  one  likely  to  occur.  Therefore,  when 
he  completed  his  preparations  and  took  the  seat  that 
had  been  indicated,  'he  was  prepared  to  find  the  other's 
attention  elsewhere,  as  it  was.  He  was  adjusting  the  pa- 
pers upon  his  desk. 

The  examination  had  been,  though  brief,  complete.  The 
officer  was  naturally  interested  in  the  personality  of  one, 
or  the  representative  of  one  who,  although  unknown  to 
the  press,  'had  accomplished  more  in  four  years  in  the 
suppression  and  exposure  of  crime,  than  any  living  man; 
who  took  no  credit  for  his  services,  nor  fees  aside  from 
the  rewards  that  were  offered;  who  held  himself  as  far  as 
possible  aloof  from  police  and  detective  bureaus;  and 
whose  own  life  history  and  antecedents,  as  well  as  those 
of  his  principal,  were  veiled  in  profound  mystery.  He 
knew  of  this  man  imperfectly  as  an  interesting  phenome- 
non, a  living,  but  very  useful  mystery.  He  was  the  mouth 
piece,  the  vade  mecum  of  "W."  Who  was  "W."  and  who 
was  Robert  Underbill?  Where  there  is  a  mystery  in  the 
life  of  any  man  there  is  a  reason ;  and  generally  the  reason 
is  not  creditable.  So  argued  the  government's  servant, 


THE  DUEL.  141 

who,  the  necessities  of  this  history  require,  shall  be  desig- 
nated by  other  than  his  proper  title.  Described  as  The 
General,  he  loses  only  his  name. 

By  that  intuition  which  marks  the  successful  man  the 
world  over,.  Chilon  knew  the  tenor  of  his  antagonist's 
thought — for  antagonist  he  considered  him.  And  he  knew 
that  the  mere  fact  that  he  was  himself  unknown  would 
make  the  examination  a  close  one.  The  conflict  toward 
which  he  had  for  years  looked  forward  as  inevitable  was 
at  hand;  he  was  as  nearly  ready  as  he  would  ever  be. 
His  disguise  would  never  be  more  perfect;  nor  his  powers 
under  better  control.  Neither  fame  nor  distinction  would 
reward  him  if  he  succeeded;  his  future  was  not  assured. 
If  he  failed — a  living  death  awaited  him. 

The  faintest  smile  marked  his  pale  face  as  his  eyes  met 
those  of  the  other. 

"I  am  directed  to  say  that  your  message  was  received 
promptly  by  the  gentleman  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
and  who  still  prefers  to  remain  unknown ;  that  he  is  not 
accustomed  to  consult  with  any  one,  being  not  open  to 
business  engagements,  but  ready  at  all  times,  from  pa- 
triotic motives,  to  assist  the  government.  I  represent 
him  with  full  power  to  act,  and  you  may  speak  frankly  in 
conference!" 

The  General  reflected  a  moment,  his  eyes  still  upon  the 
visitor's  face. 

At  length  he  began: 

"I  must  admit,  Mr.  Underbill,  that  we  are  greatly  dis- 
turbed and  puzzled  over  the  counterfeit  bill  that  has  come 
into  our  possession  through  you  gentlemen,"  he  nodded 
to  a  typewriter  sitting  near,  who  immediately  withdrew. 
"Four  years  ago  there  escaped  from  us  a  man  named 
Carl  Garner,  convicted  in  1874  of  counterfeiting.  He  and 
his  gang,  no  other  member  of  which  was  ever  arrested 


"There  was  no  gang,"  said  Chilon,  "but  pardon  me, 
proceed." 


142  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"You  know  of  the  case,  then?'' 

"Somewhat  I  know  that  you  convicted  an  innocent 
man.  But  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  all  the  particulars." 

"This  man,  after  his  escape,  disappeared  as  completely 
as  though  swallowed  up  by  the  earth.  Nothing  has  been 
heard  of  him,  not  the  slightest  clew  or  trace  found — until 
recently." 

"Indeed!'' 

"Personally,  I  was  rather  pleased  to  think  that  the  poor 
fellow  recovered  his  freedom,  for  I  was  present,  as  it  hap- 
pened, at  the  trial  in  New  York,  and  was  inclined  to  think 
that  he  was  victimized." 

"He  was  victimized,"  said  Chilon,  softly,  his  eyes  half- 
closing  and  the  look  of  interest  deepening  on  his  face. 
He  advanced  his  chair  a  little.  "Do  you  not  still  think 
so?" 

"You  were  present  at  the  trial,  also?" 

"My  principal  was.  I  have  read  and  heard  several  ac- 
counts of  it,  and  I  would  be  a  poor  judge  of  human  na- 
ture, General,  which  I  am  not,  if  I  did  not  believe  in  his 
innocence."  The  General's  face  wore  a  look  of  surprise. 
He  continued: 

"The  trouble  is,  that  not  only  have  the  plates  never  been 
recovered " 

"Ah,  I  had  not  heard  that!"    Again  the  visitor  smiled. 

"But  they  are  being  used  again."  Chilon's  face  did  not 
change  expression. 

"It  is  impossible!"  he  said,  with  decision.  "For  then 
assuredly  he  would  have  been  guilty!" 

"He  was  guilty,  Mr.  Underbill.  The  government  must 
arrest  him  and  secure  those  plates." 

"You  argue  that " 

"The  country  will  otherwise  be  flooded  with  the  most 
dangerous  counterfeit  ever  put  forth.  You  may  possibly 
remember  that  the  so-called  experts  were  everywhere  de- 
ceived. The  bill  was  so  nearly  perfect  that  only  the  closest 
comparison  could  reveal  the  counterfeit.  The  worst 


THE  DUEL.  143 

of  it  is,  even  an  ordinary  engraver  could,  by  a  few  lines, 
make  the  plate  so  correct  as  to  deceive  even  the  Treas- 
ury." 

"Have  you  the  bill?  And  do  you  mind  showing  me 
the  defects?"  Chilon  moved  his  chair  against  the  desk 
and  adjusted  his  glasses. 

"This  bill,"  said  the  other,  opening  his  papers,  "which 
was  sent  us  from  New  York  a  few  days  since,  is  new  and 
the  only  one  detected  since  the  trial  and  conviction  of 
Garner." 

"Is  it  possible!"  Chilon  took  the  bill  and  noted  the 
number.  It  was,  of  course,  from  Silvy's  little  hoard. 

"You  perceive  it  is  a  new  bill — or  has  never  been  in 
circulation.  You  are  not  at  liberty  to  say  how  it  was  dis- 
covered, I  suppose?" 

"I  am  not.  Where  is  the  defect  in  it,  General?"  he  asked, 
after  a  brief  inspection. 

"There  is  a  difference  in  the  feeling,  to  begin  with,  so 
the  Treasury  people  say;  something  that  neither  you  nor 
I,  probably,  can  detect;  a  difference  arising  from  the 
fact  that  a  light  hand-press  was  used  for  the  counterfeit, 
and  a  heavy  machine  press  for  the  genuine.  Here  is  a 
genuine  bill  of  the  same  issue.  Look  closely  and  you  will 
note  that  in  the  bad  bill  the  little  curl  to  the  treasurer's  sig- 
nature is  too  short  and  the  shading  in  the  drapery  of  the 
figure  and  on  the  face  in  the  medallion  is  a  trifle  too  light. 
With  these  exceptions,  the  plate  is,  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses, perfect,  the  most  marvelous  counterfeit  the  world 
ever  saw,  and  consequently  the  work  of  an  artist  of  the 
highest  order.  Carl  Garner  is  not  the  engraver ;  and  yet 
the  plates  were  not  in  use  during  his  imprisonment.  It 
would  seem  from  this  that  he  certainly  controls  them." 

"If,  then,  the  original  artist,  or  one  of  fairly  good  skill, 
should  take  these  plates,  add  the  curl  to  the  signature, 
deepen  the  shading  on  the  face  of  the  medallion  and  print 
the  bills  on  the  right  kind  of  paper  and  the  right  kind  of 
press,  the  product  would  pass  even  the  Treasury !" 


144  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"It  would  be  necessary  to  call  in  and  destroy  every  bill 
of  that  issue!  And  that  would  not  cure  the  evil.  We 
would  never  know  when  they  were  all  in." 

The  chief  laid  aside  the  bill.  He  lifted  his  eyes  and  they 
met  those  of  his  visitor.  For  ten  seconds,  perhaps,  they 
gazed  at  each  other.  The  government  officer's  face  grew 
pale  and  then  flushed  with  the  sudden  return  of  blood. 
Not  a  muscle  of  the  cold,  white  face  confronting  him 
changed,  but  the  gray  eyes  were  lit  with  a  marvelous 
flame,  and  they  carried  a  message  across  the  table.  In 
that  moment  The  General  knew  that  the  man  he  wanted 
was  before  him,  and  Chilon  knew  that  he  was  recognized. 


AT  BAY.  145 

CHAPTER  XXXI 
AT  BAY! 

The  General  fingered  his  papers  uneasily  and  moved  in 
his  chair,  while  a  quiet  smile  hovered  about  the  mouth  of 
his  visitor.  Presently  the  latter  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
little  silver  case  and  leisurely  exposed  a  half  dozen  slender, 
Spanish  cigars. 

"Is  it  permitted?"  he  asked,  carelessly.  The  General 
nodded  his  head  quickly.  "I  may  then  offer  you  one; — 
you  will  find  them  above  the  ordinary." 

"I  do  not  smoke."  The  General  spoke  absently,  the 
look  of  perplexity  still  clouding  his  fine  face.  Chilon 
lighted  a  wax  match  and  held  it  a  moment  against  the  to- 
bacco. He  felt  again  the  keen,  swift  look  of  scrunity,  and 
rising,  walked  off  slowly  to  where  he  might  drop  the 
match  in  a  cuspidor.  Over  the  face  of  the  government 
officer  suddenly  flashed  a  new  look. 

"Magnificent,"  he  murmured.    Then  aloud: 

"You  have  had  a  romantic  history,  Mr.  Underhill!" 
Chilon  paused  as  he  was  about  to  seat  himself. 

"You  are  acquainted  with  my  history,  then?" 

"Well, — not  exactly.  You  are  aware,  perhaps,  though, 
that  even  the  most  secretive  men  are  not  always  un- 
known." 

"Ah!"  Chilon  smoked  tranquilly.  He  left  no  encour- 
agement, but  The  General  made  a  bold  plunge. 

"Leading  the  life  that  you  do " 

"You  also  know  the  life  I  lead?" 

"Again, — not  exactly.  But  I  know  that  you  are  a  won- 
derful discoverer  of  evidence,  Mr.  Underhill,  and  it  is  easy 
to  infer  the  life  you  lead.  I  was  going  to  ask  you  what 
section  has  the  honor  of  claiming  your  birthplace?" 

"None,  I  am  afraid !"    And  then,  "but,  really,  I  remem- 
ber nothing  beyond  my  third  year,  looking  backwards." 
10 


146  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Which  means?'' 

"That  in  my  present  occupation  the  less  one  reveals  of 
himself  the  greater  his  powers.  The  public  likes  a  mys- 
tery— especially  the  public  I  look  to.  And  I  merely  rep- 
resent another,  as  you  seem  to  forget." 

"I  see.  No  one,  then,  knows  your  history,  nor  that  of 
'W.'?" 

"No  one  knows  me  but  God,"  was  the  grave  answer. 
The  General  looked  up  quickly. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked,  smiling,  this  time,  himself. 

"Quite  sure,  sir!" 

"You  forget  that  the  government  has  many  keen  eyes ! 
Perhaps  more  of  your  history  is  known  than  you  imag- 
ine!" Chilon  met  the  smile  with  one  that,  accompanied 
by  his  reply,  might  have  passed  for  a  covert  sneer.  He 
carelessly  lifted  the  counterfeit  bill  and  laid  it  down  again. 
The  General  nodded  his  head. 

"Well  answered,"  he  said.  "I  see,  Mr.  Underbill,  that 
you  are  bound  to  preserve  your, — mystery,  and  I  beg 
your  pardon  if  I  have  seemed  over-inquisitive;  but  'W, 
care  of  Robert  Underbill'  and  'W,  through  Robert  Un- 
derhill,  informs  the  government,'  etc.,  have  puzzled  me 
more  than  any  mystery  I  have  ever  encountered.  The 
government  is  bound  to  admit  the  value  of  your  assist- 
ance, especially  in  the  arrest  of  the  other  counterfeiters, — 
and  gave  substantial  proof,  if  I  remember." 

"Entirely  satisfactory,  I  believe,  sir!" 

"That  case,  and  the  information  leading  to  the  arrest 

of  the  defaulting  postmaster  of ,  and  the  whereabouts 

of  the  murderer  of  the  Tennessee  revenue  officer, — cases 
so  diverse  and  in  places  so  far  apart,  argue  a  system  al- 
most too  wonderful  to  admit.  It  would  be  worth  a  great 
deal  to  the  government." 

"Absolutely  nothing!"  said  Chilon,  gravely;  "absolute- 
ly nothing  under  any  other  management!"  The  General 
was  silent,  still  regarding  with  admiration  the  firm,  pale 
face  before  him. 


AT  BAY.  147 

Chilon  sat  looking  down  in  silence. 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  as  much,  General,  on  this 
subject  as  you  wish,  but  I  will  tell  you  one  naked  fact, 
upon  your  word  of  honor  as  to  secrecy!'* 

"You  have  it,  of  course!'' 

"It  has  never  been  told  before.  The  system,  such  a 
system  as  you  suspect,  really  exists.  Its  head  and  front 
is  'W!  I  am  simply  the  connecting  link  between  him 
and  the  world.  No  other  man  knows  him.  It  is  a  system 
widely  extended,  and  reaching  where  no  detective  could 
penetrate." 

"May  I  ask  upon  what  the  system  is  founded?" 

"The  weakness  of  human  nature!  We  simply  repre- 
sent a  bureau  for  handling  profitably  criminal  informa- 
tion. Through  us  the  friends  of  the  rogue,  the  murderer, 
the  thief,  the  counterfeiter,  the  defaulter,  his  partners  in 
crime,  even  the  women  who  wear  his  jewels,  may  sell  him 
to  justice  with  perfect  safety.  They  sell  him.  That  is 
all!  We  do  not  detect,  we  do  not  arrest,  we  are  unknown. 
A  few  heads  of  detective  bureaus  know  me ;  a  few  chiefs 
of  police,  and — occasionally  a  government  officer.  You 
once  offered  us  a  case ;  we  declined  it  because  we  would 
not  know  where  to  begin.  If  information  does  not  come 
to  us,  we  simply  do  not  get  it.  If  it  does  come  and  is  good, 
he  receives  it,  to  whom  it  is  most  useful!  No  man  in  any 
prison  would  recognize  me  if  I  walked  among  them !"  It 
was  an  accidental  ending.  He  looked  up  to  find  The 
General  watching  'him,  fascinated.  He  saw  the  impres- 
sion he  had  made,  and  continued:  "That  is  the  secret; — 
all  of  it,  practically,  except  the  name  of  the  man  I  repre- 
sent, and  that  is  of  no  service  to  you,  even  were  I  per- 
mitted to  use  it.  It  may  strike  you  as  strange  that  I 
come  here  and  reveal  this  to  you  in  a  business  conversa- 
tion, but,  frankly,  I  have  a  good  reason  for  it,  which  will 
presently  appear.  In  the  meantime,  what  can  we  do  for 
you, — in  the  case  in  hand?" 


148  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"We  want  Carl  Garner  and  the  plates  from  which  this 
bill  was  printed." 

"Have  you  a  description  of  him?" 

"Here  it  is!" 

"You  will  kindly  read  it  aloud.  I  wish  to  compare  it 
with  a  picture  in  my  mind." 

"Height,  five  feet  nine  inches;  weight,  146  pounds;  dark 
complexion,  hair  brown,  and  curly  when  not  cropped; 
face  clean  shaven,  mouth  well  formed  and  sensitive,  nose 
slender  and  straight  and  teeth  white,  even  and  perfect; 
carries  himself  with  slight  stoop,  is  quick  of  speech  and 
of  nervous  temperament.  That  was  Carl  Garner  seven- 
teen years  ago.  Of  course,  time  must  have  wrought  many 
changes;  and  he  has  had  four  years  in  which  to  assist. 
He  may  be  gray  by  now  and  have  a  mustache.  By  per- 
sistent effort  he  may  have  changed  his  method  of  speech 
and  have  subdued  his  nervousness."  He  spoke  this  slow- 
ly, and  upon  concluding  fixed  a  piercing  look  upon  his 
vis-a-vis.  Chilon,  with  half-closed  eyes,  was  leaning  back, 
tapping  thoughtfully  with  his  pencil  upon  his  even  white 
teeth.  He  took  up  where  the  other  left  off. 

"But  in  all  likelihood  he  still  has  his  dark  complexion 
and  brown  eyes."  Opening  his  own,  he  sat  upright  and 
looked  The  General  full  in  the  face.  The  confidence  of 
that  officer  received  a  severe  shock. 

"Well, — it  would  seem  so,  it  would  seem  so!"  he  said, 
hastily ;  "brown  eyes  would  hardly  turn  to  gray,  at  least." 
Again  the  quiet  smile  returned  to  the  visitor's  face  for  an 
instant,  and  then  vanished. 

"There  is  one  other  thing  forgotten.  Have  you  a  speci- 
men of  this  man  Garner's  handwriting?" 

"No, — we  have  not!    But,  stay!" 

From  his  papers,  with  excitement  well-suppressed  but 
still  evident,  he  took  up  the  newspaper  clipping  and  read 
it  carefully.  "A  specimen  can  be  obtained."  He  reached 
his  hand  toward  the  electric  button,  but  paused,  a  look  of 
exultation  upon  his  face,  in  spite  of  his  efforts.  "Do  you 


AT  BAY.  149 

mind  writing  me  a  telegram  while  I  look  over  these  pa- 
pers more  carefully?    Perhaps  I  have " 

"Certainly  not."  Chilon  took  up  a  pen  and  drew  a  blank 
toward  him,  The  General,  as  he  handled  his  papers,  dic- 
tating: 

"Clerk  of  U.  S.  Dist.  Court,  New  York  City— In  re 
Carl  Garner,  convicted  counterfeiting,  April,  1874;  send 
original  of  prisoner's  statement." 

Chilon  passed  over  the  message  for  signature. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Underhill.    Excuse  my  troubling  you !" 

Chilon  nodded,  carelessly. 

"It  is  hardly  necessary  to  send  that,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  can  always  see  it  there.  In  fact,  I  saw  it  yesterday.  I 
took  occasion  to  make  some  notes  upon  Garner's  case, 
as  I  will  presently  explain,  and  went  over  that  statement 
with  the  other  papers !" 

Again  the  two  men  faced  each  other.  Again  The 
General  read  aright  the  smiling  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 
With  a  grave  bow  he  laid  the  telegram  with  the  papers  in 
the  case  and  put  them  aside. 

"I  will  consider  the  matter,"  he  said.  "You  inferred, 
then,  that  it  was  about  Garner  I  wished  to  see  you ;  may 
I  ask  why?" 

"First,  General,  let  me  go  on  with  the  main  question. 
What  do  you  want  of  us?" 

"Briefly,  then,  to  find  Carl  Garner." 

"I  have  already  shown  that  finding  people  whose  where- 
abouts we  do  not  know  already  is  out  of  our  line;  but 
that  is  not  my  answer.  What  are  your  terms,  sir?" 

"The  terms  I  offer,  Mr.  Underhill,  are  subject  to  rati- 
fication. For  information  leading  to  the  arrest  of  Garner 
we  will  pay  one  thousand  dollars." 

"One  thousand!"  The  inflection,  the  surprise,  was  per- 
fect. "Small,  is  it  not?  Very  little  for  a  man  who  can 
make  such  five  dollar  bills  as  that?" 


150  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"For  the  plates  the  government  will  pay  ten  thousand, 
if  necessary." 

"Cheap  plates,  cheap  plates !"  said  Chilon,  shaking  his 
head  slowly.  "Garner  would  do  better  to  cure  the  few 
defects  in  them  and  print  his  own  rewards!" 

The  General  arose  suddenly  and  looked  down  angrily 
upon  his  visitor.  Then  he  began  to  pace  the  room.  He 
paused  at  intervals,  staring  fixedly  at  Chilon  and  debat- 
ing a  question  in  his  mind.  If  this  were  indeed  Garner,  he 
should  not  be  allowed  to  leave  that  room  a  free  man.  But 
if  he  were  arrested  how  could  he  be  held?  Upon  a  writ 
of  habeas  corpus  he  would  regain  his  freedom  in  twenty- 
four  hours.  The  description  did  not  fit  him,  and  the  bur- 
den of  proof  was  on  the  government.  And  would  arrest 
secure  the  plates?  It  had  already  failed  once.  He  dis- 
missed the  idea.  Long  experience  and  Chilon's  manner 
convinced  him  that  there  was  a  better  course. 

"Mr.  Underbill,"  he  said,  finally,  "I  believe  you  are  the 
man  for  this  enterprise.  The  government  will  ratify  any- 
thing in  reason  that  I  promise  or  you  claim  in  the  sur- 
render of  these  plates.  What  would  you  propose?" 

He  returned  to  his  chair.  Chilon  arose,  and  carrying 
his  cigar  to  the  cuspidor,  stood  a  moment  in  thought. 

"General,"  he  said,  "forgive  me  if  I  seem  to  have  trifled 
with  you  in  this  matter;  I  have  not.  My  profession  has 
made  me  the  receiver  of  information,  and  I  wanted  to 
hear  the  case  as  it  appeared  to  you.  I  know  Garner's  al- 
ready from  his  own  lips." 

The  General  regarded  him  steadily  without  reply. 

"So  far  as  Garner  himself  is  concerned,  he  will  never 
be  sent  back  to  prison,  and  the  plates  cannot  be  bought 
for  money.'* 

"What,  then,  does  he  want?" 

"Briefly,  the  right  to  walk  among  his  fellow-men,  free, 
with  the  stains  upon  his  character  removed.  He  offered 
them  for  this  once,  and  now  he  renews  the  offer  after 
twelve  years'  imprisonment." 


AT  BAY.  151 

"In  the  meantime  he  has  gone  to  work  and  printed  bad 
money  again!" 

"He  has  not.  I  shall  now  tell  you  his  story.  Apply 
to  it  the  simple  rules  of  common  sense  and  judge  if  he 
be  not  honest  and  fair !  Garner,  as  I  will  call  him,  for  that 
is  the  name  under  which  this  great  government  baptized 
him  with  a  ceremony  so  cruel  that  it  seems  to  belong  to 
an  age  of  barbarism  rather  than  to  the  liberty-blessed  en- 
lightenment of  the  nineteenth  century;  Garner,  soon  after 
his  escape,  began  life  again  with  one  supreme  object — 
the  finding  of  the  man  who  betrayed  him,  innocent,  to  a 
living  tomb.  I  have  heard  the  story  of  his  former  life, 
and  it  went  to  my  heart.  It  was  obliged  to  be  true ;  it  is 
true !  That  betrayal  cost  him  home,  name,  family,  friends, 
inheritance,  and, — wife.  When  he  returned,  after  the 
twelve  years  of  silence — all  were  gone — lost  forever!" 

The  form  of  the  speaker  wavered  a  moment,  but  his 
flashing  eyes  still  held  their  light  bravely. 

"The  blow  would  have  killed  a  dozen  men ;  it  made  a 
man  of  him ;  a  man  without  fear  of  life  or  death  or  aught 
that  lies  between.  It  made  him  as  tender  at  heart  as  a 
young  mother,  in  some  respects ;  a  tiger — worse,  a  hyena 
— in  others.  For  if  the  man  who  ruined,  who  robbed  his 
life  of  the  possibilities  of  happiness  and  murdered  his 
youth  were  dead  and  buried,  he  would  tear  open  his  grave 
with  naked  hands  and  scatter  his  bones  to  the  beasts  of 
the  night!" 

With  a  mighty  effort  he  restrained  his  voice,  the  fury  be- 
coming too  apparent,  and  with  infinite  pathos  took  up 
the  story  again. 

"His  sufferings  touched  my  heart.  I  believed  his  story. 
I  knew  that  in  his  trial  he  spoke  God's  holy  truth  if  human 
lips  ever  spoke  it,  and  that  his  sacrifice  was  as  noble  as 
ever  man  has  witnessed. 

"Chances,  as  he  sought  his  destroyer,  put  him  in  pos- 
session of  information  valuable  to  the  government.  He 


152  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

gave  it  through  us.    You  received  and  acted  upon  it!" 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"I  swear  it!  The  reward,  most  of  it,  went  to  others. 
Again  and  again,  and  yet  again,  he  served  you — through 
us!  Does  that  look  as  if  your  prisoner — your  escaped 
convict — is  an  enemy  to  law  and  order?5' 

"No!" 

"And  he  is  ready  to  serve  you  again!  He  has  printed 
no  bills.  That  which  lies  before  you  on  the  table  is  the 
last  of  the  original  lot, — printed  then  only  to  sell  the 
plates.  That  was  true,  too.  He  sent  it  through  us  to  you 
to  emphasize  his  case  and  to  prove  his  innocence — in  fact, 
to  bring  about  this  interview." 

The  General  thought  a  moment  in  silence,  his  eyes  fixed 
still  upon  the  strange  figure  before  him.  Again  he  mur- 
mured: 

"Magnificent!    Magnificent!" 

"There  is  one  defect,  my  friend,"  he  said,  very  gently, 
touched  more  deeply  than  he  would  have  admitted  to 
himself.  "Garner  could  have  shown  his  sincerity  in  a 
very  simple  way.  He  could  have  returned  the  plates  at 
any  time  during  the  last  four  years.  He  offered  to  get 
them  if  restored  freedom;  when  he  secured  his  freedom 
it  would  have  established  his  sincerity  had  he  done  so !" 

Chilon  shook  his  head,  sadly. 

"You  have  not  allowed  for  human  passion.  With  those 
plates  gone  from  his  control,  he  might  have  had  no  way 
to  bring  upon  his  betrayer  the  fate  he  himself  suffered. 
It  was  his  design  to  have  the  real  criminal  arrested  with 
that  bill  and  those  plates  in  his  possession.  They  would 
have  been  placed  there.  He  has  waited  four  years  for  the 
opportunity.  In  that  time  he  has  had  the  advantage  of  ev- 
ery power  we  possess ;  not  a  criminal  of  note  in  the  great 
cities  has  been  arrested  but  has  been  investigated  by 
photograph  or  description.  You  are  aware  of  the  close- 
ness of  our  watch,  and  can  appreciate  that  some  powerful 
reason  has  kept  the  man  from  making  his  appearance. 


AT  BAY.  153 

We  are  satisfied  that  he  is  dead  or  in  some  state  or  foreign 
prison." 

"Do  I  understand  that  Garner  has  given  up  at  last?" 

"No.  But  we  make  you  this  proposition;  hands  off, 
and  if  in  sixty  days  we  do  not  deliver  to  you  the  real  crim- 
inal in  the  old  case  we  will  deliver  the  plates.  In  the  mean- 
time, you  may  be  assured  that  there  will  be  no  use  made 
of  the  latter.  For  this  we  will  ask  that,  quietly,  a  pardon 
be  given  our  client.  Is  it  unreasonable?" 

"I  think  not.    Still,  I  do  not  like  the  plates  to  be  out." 

"My  dear  sir,  you  cannot  help  that.  And  if  the  plates 
have  remained  unused  during  seventeen  years,  they 
are  not  likely  to  be  put  to  work  during  the  next  sixty 
days." 

"I  will  guarantee  the  pardon  for  the  immediate  de- 
livery of  the  plates.  That,  with  the  services  rendered" — 
Chilon  quivered  with  sudden  rage  and  excitement.  The 
General  had  arisen  with  something  like  a  threat  upon  his 
own  face,  and  they  met  before  the  desk.  They  looked 
steadily  into  each  other's  eyes.  By  a  supreme  effort  the 
visitor  controlled  himself. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  gently,  "you  have  asked  my  assistance 
and  I  have  offered  it  free  of  cost  because  of  my  friendship 
for  the  man  you  call  Carl  Garner.  If  you  decline  the 
proposition  I  have  made  for  him — little  enough,  God 
knows — I  shall  advise  him  to  renew  it  and  claim  a  $100,- 
ooo  bonus!  He  is  a  friend  to  his  country;  do  not  make 
him  an  enemy!"  The  General  stood  silent  a  few  mo- 
ments, his  eyes  searching  the  face  of  his  visitor.  Then  he 
very  slowly  extended  his  hand,  saying: 

"I  agree  to  your  terms,  subject  to  ratification;  and 
of  this  I  will  advise  you  in  a  few  hours.  Let  me  add  for 
myself,  my  friend,  that  I  believe  the  story  of  Carl  Garner 
is  true.  He  has  nothing  to  fear  from  me  during  the  sixty 
days  he  claims.  And  I  take  this  occasion,  Mr.  Underbill, 
to  personally  thank  you,  and  him,  for  your  services  to  the 


154  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

government — to  express  my  admiration  for  you  as  a  man 
of  genius  and  courage.    What  is  your  address?" 

"The  same  as  before.  I  thank  you,  both  for  myself 
and  Carl  Garner,  for  your  kind  words  and  your  belief  in 
him.  They  will  probably  constitute  the  first  that  have 
reached  him  in  many  a  year.  They  will  teach  him,  I  think, 
sir,  that  there  are  a  few  bright  spots  left  in  the  world,  a 
few  hearts  upon  which  light  is  still  shining."  The  General 
held  the  hand  of  his  visitor  a  moment  more,  flushed  and 
looked  down.  Then  he  pressed  it  in  silence. 


RAVENSWOOD.  155 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
RAVENSWOOD. 

Within  the  few  hours,  as  promised,  Chilon  received  a 
brief  note  from  the  government's  representative  confirm- 
ing the  contract  that  had  been  made,  namely:  Robert  Un- 
derhill  and  his  principal  were,  within  sixty  days,  to  deliver 
to  the  government  the  original  Carl  Garner  and  plates 
if  possible.  Failing  in  that,  they  were  to  deliver  the  plates. 
For  this,  Carl  Garner,  as  convicted,  was  to  receive  a 
pardon,  with  such  public  reparation  as  he  might  require. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  a  year  Chilon  walked  forth  a 
free  man.  He  took  the  Southern  Express  an  hour  later. 

Time  had  made  great  changes  in  the  city  of  his  youth. 
Not  only  had  ambitious  buildings  sprung  into  existence, 
but  the  craze  for  colored  paints  had  swept  away  the  dig- 
nity of  many  old  mansions,  and  the  calm  restfulness  of  the 
broad  streets  had  fled  before  the  whirring  wheels  of  elec- 
tric cars.  It  scarcely  seemed  to  be  the  same  city.  He 
walked  the  streets  absolutely  alone,  meeting  many  famil- 
iar faces,  grown  older;  missing  more.  No  one  knew  him. 

But  his  interest  in  life  had  not,  as  he  tried  to  persuade 
himself,  narrowed  down  to  Carl  Garner.  He  could  not, 
impatiently  as  he  tried,  repress  a  certain  feeling  of 
eagerness  when  he  looked  into  the  faces  of  the  women 
who  met  him  and  gazed  into  the  many  carriages  brought 
out  by  the  perfection  of  that  May  morning.  It  was  with 
a  feeling  almost  boyish,  yet  inexpressibly  sad,  that  he 
temporized  openly,  at  last,  and  sought  the  neighborhood 
of  the  late  Richard  Marbeau's  residence.  He  passed  it 
by  on  the  opposite  side;  flowers  were  in  the  windows, 
little  children  were  riding  their  bicycles  about  the  yard, 
a  stout  lady  was  clipping  rose  bushes,  and  an  old  man 
read  his  paper  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  veranda.  A  post- 
man was  hurrying  past,  but  stopped  to  answer  a  question. 


156  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Marbeau?  No,  sir!  No  such  family  has  lived  there 
since  I  came  on  this  route  three  years  since.  Colonel  Mar- 
beau  lives  seven  miles  out." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Thank  you!"  He  passed  on.  What  did 
it  matter!  She  had  gone  away  somewhere  to  educate  her 
child.  It  was  better  so.  But  the  beauty  went  out  of  the 
day.  The  voices  of  romping  children,  the  sight  of  the 
fresh,  southern  faces  in  car  and  carriage  wearied,  palled 
upon  him.  He  hurried  to  a  stable  and  took  a  vehicle. 
He  had  not  announced  the  day  of  his  arrival. 
The  bureau  through  which  the  request  for  assistance  had 
reached  him  had  merely  written  that  Mr.  Robert  Under- 
bill, who  was  traveling  for  health  in  the  south  and  upon 
whose  advice  in  many  important  matters  they  relied  im- 
plicitly, would  soon,  at  their  request,  call  upon  him.  The 
letter  also  advised  against  any  suggestions  upon  the  part 
of  Colonel  Marbeau  looking  to  compensation  for  this 
service,  as  Mr.  Underbill  was  not  in  business  as  a  detec- 
tive, and  rendered  it  as  a  matter  of  accommodation  to 
them. 

So  Chilon  returned  home.  The  last  time  it  had  been 
as  a  fleeing  criminal  in  the  shadows  of  the  woods  and 
streams,  unknown,  and  poor.  This  time  he  came  openly, 
bearing  the  guarantee  of  his  government  and  a  name  that 
was  powerful. 

Saddened  and  depressed  though  he  was,  he  would  not 
have  been  human  had  he  not  nevertheless  felt  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  day  and  the  splendor  of  those  skies.  The  air 
was  full  of  sweets,  and  vibrant  with  the  rapture  of  birds 
and  the  tuneful  chorus  of  negroes  in  the  cotton  fields, 
whose  threads  of  green  stretched  away  into  the  dizzy  dis- 
tances. As  he  passed  one  of  these  groups,  their  hoes  ris- 
ing and  falling  with  rhythmic  precision,  he  caught  the 
words  of  an  old,  familiar  hymn : 

Hold  the  candle,  Sister  Mary, 

Hold  the  candle,  my  sister, 

Hold  the   candle  till   I  look   over  Jordan. 


RAVENSWOOD.  157 

The  days  are  so  long 
And  the  people  are  so  wicked 
I  don't  want  to  stay  here 
No  longer! 

A  memory  came  to  him  of  the  sweet  face  of  his  mother, 
set  within  a  mass  of  wavy  hair;  and  of  the  prayers  he 
used  to  say  at  her  knees, — he  and  Celeste!  How  strange, 
how  far  it  all  seemed!  His  way  had  been  a  tortuous  one. 
Thank  God,  she  had  fallen  asleep  out  of  sight  of  it  all. 

The  song  had  faded  in  the  distance.  Looking  back  he 
saw  the  regular  flash  of  the  polished  hoes,  and  knew  that 
it  still  went  on. 

Through  the  old,  familiar  archway  of  the  gate  at  Rav- 
enswood  the  vehicle  rolled.  It  was  there,  when  she  came 
home  that  day  from  school,  the  shy  little  convent  girl, 
that  he  had  kissed  her  impulsively  and  said,  "Welcome  to 
Ravenswood!"  To-day  how  was  it? 

"Drive  on,"  he  said,  quickly,  to  the  man  with  the  lines; 
"we  are  losing  time." 

And  last  of  all  there  was  the  old  sycamore,  with  its  half- 
concealed  hollow.  This  time  he  turned  his  face  away  and 
ground  his  teeth  together  with  inward  rage  at  his  own 
weakness.  The  vehicle  had  stopped  when  he  recovered 
his  self-possession.  Looking  hurriedly,  he  saw  the  old, 
familiar  home,  with  the  familiar  figure  of  its  owner 
standing  upon  the  porch  awaiting  him. 

Chilon  took  occasion,  before  reaching  the  steps,  to 
measure  the  effects  of  time  upon  the  man  he  was  to  meet. 
He  was  a  little  grayer,  a  little  heavier,  with  just  a  slight 
settling  of  the  erect  figure — that  was  all.  There  were 
the  same  bright  eye  and  open  face,  the  same  easy  dress 
and  courteous  attention.  He  rose  to  his  level  with  slow, 
deliberate  steps,  and  they  met.  He  felt  the  swift,  search- 
ing glance  and  noted  the  slight  expression  of  bewilder- 
ment upon  his  uncle's  face.  He  spoke  first: 

"Colonel  Marbeau,  I  believe!  I  am  Mr.  Underbill." 
The  next  instant  they  were  shaking  hands  and  the  Col- 
onel was  leading  the  way  into  the  library.  A  girl  of  prob- 


158  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

ably  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age  was  curled  up  in  the 
great  leather  chair  asleep  over  her  books.  Chilon  was 
to  receive  many  tests,  but  few  would  appeal  to  him  more 
forcibly!  It  had  been  the  favorite  attitude  of  Lena  from 
childhood  up.  Startled  and  deeply  affected,  fascinated, 
he  paused  before  the  beautiful  picture.  Colonel  Marbeau 
noticed  the  action  with  surprise,  and  following  the  direc- 
tion of  the  other's  gaze  saw,  in  the  rather  dimly-lighted 
room,  the  little  figure.  He  smiled. 

"Study,  upon  such  mornings  as  these,  comes  peculiarly 
hard  to  a  child,  Mr.  Underbill.  You  will  have  to  excuse 
the  young  lady.  Lena!  Lena!"  he  continued,  touching 
the  smooth  cheek  of  the  sleeper;  "jump  up,  my  dear.  See, 
here  is  a  gentleman  who  wishes  to  meet  you."  In  an  in- 
stant the  child  was  on  her  feet,  looking  upon  the  stranger 
from  under  long  lashes  that  almost  hid  the  loveliness  of 
her  dark,  brown  eyes. 

"This  is  my  granddaughter,  Lena,  Mr.  Underbill;  as 
fine  a  sleeper  as  ever  sat  in  a  chair.  Eh,  Lena?  You  were 
literally  caught  napping  that  time,  weren't  you?'' 

The  child  extended  to  the  visitor  her  little  hand. 

"Yes,  Grandpa!  I  hope  Mr.  Underbill  will  excuse  me. 
I  had  so  tired  of  study." 

Chilon  had  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  for  a  second, 
almost  blinded  by  the  rush  of  blood  to  the  head.  He  had 
discounted  by  imagining  all  scenes  and  trials  that  seemed 
possible,  but  not  this  vivid  reproduction  of  a  picture  from 
the  past.  Face,  figure,  voice  and  manner;  {hey  were 
the  same.  Lena  Marbeau  was  not  dead. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!"  He  vaguely  realized  that 
Colonel  Marbeau  was  speaking — "you  are  ill — faint! 

Run,  daughter,  and  bring  Mr.  Underbill  a  glass  of  water 
>> 

"A  passing  dizziness,  only,"  said  Chilon,  smiling  weak- 
ly. "The  day  is  a  little  warm  for  a  northerner.  And  the 
long  ride " 

"Naturally.     I  beg  that  you  will  be  seated,  sir.    Take 


RAVENSWOOD.  159 

this  chair  near  the  window.  And  here  is  a  fan  of  the  old 
kind.  Lena,  this  way,  dear.  And,  Mr.  Underhill" — 
as  Chilon  surrendered  and  accepted  the  silver  dipper — "I 
will  guarantee,  sir,  that  you  have  never  had  such  a 
draught!  It  comes  from  the  best  of  springs!" 

"It  is  certainly  refreshing,"  said  Chilon,  handing  back 
the  dipper.  "It  has  been  many  years  since  I  read  poetry — 
life  for  us,  Colonel,  has  but  little  poetry — but  just  now  two 
lines  come  out  of  my  youth — I  forget  even  the  author, 
but  it  matters  not — 

"  'A  sweeter  draught  from  fairer  hands  was  never  quaffed!'  " 

"Well  said!"  exclaimed  his  host,  "and  well  chosen!'' 
Lena  looked  at  them  with  her  grave,  questioning  eyes, 
and  bowed  in  embarrassment. 

"This  is  your  first  visit  south,  Mr.  Underhill?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  have  occasionally  passed  through  the 
southern  states.  But  it  has  been  some  years  since  I  was 
last  in  this  section." 

"Gentlemen  of  your  profession — but  I  forget;  you  are 
not,  I  believe,  connected  with  any " 

"Detective  system?    None.     I   have  no  profession.'' 

Colonel  Marbeau  looked  a  little  bewildered.  He  regard- 
ed the  now  calm  and  collected  man  before  him  with  deep 
interest. 

"No  profession;  but  yet "  Chilon  had  anticipated 

this. 

"But  yet  I  have  friends  who  make  it  their  business  to 
unravel  mysteries.  I  have  called  upon  you  at  the  request 
of  one  of  them.  I  have  never  before  left  my  office  for  a 
consultation  with  any  one;  but  it  suits  me  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  in  the  south." 

"That  is  fortunate,"  said  the  Colonel,  warmly.  "I  beg 
that  you  will  honor  us  with  your  company  as  long  as  you 
feel  disposed.  We  have  a  good  country  here,  and  just 
enough  of  the  old  south  to  make  it  worth  while  for  a 
visitor  who  feels  interested  to  study  our  institutions.  The 


160  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

shooting  season  is  passed,  but  our  fishing  is  good.  Un- 
fortunately, I  am  obliged  to  take  care  of  my  eyes  just  now, 
or  I  might  offer  personally  to  accompany  you.  Some  of 
my  wounds  are  a  little  troublesome,  too." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Colonel.  I  shall  not  trouble  you 
to  that  extent;  but  if  a  few  days,  a  week,  perhaps,  would 
not  inconvenience  you — 

"Why,  dear  me,  nothing  could  make  me  happier.  And 
in  that  time  we  may  discuss  our  business  at  leisure.  Sad 
business,  it  is,  Mr.  Underbill,  sad  business!" 

"Ah,  indeed.  Unfortunately,  I  hear  but  little  else,  Col- 
onel." 

"I  suppose  so.  I  regret  to  add  to  your  store  of  un- 
pleasant experiences.  But  yet  this  has  only  sad  features; 
it  is  entirely  within  the  family,  sir,  and  of  course  nothing 
— criminal." 

"That  is  fortunate,  indeed." 

"It  is  a  case  of  disappearance,  sir,  only;  we 
will  go  over  it  after  a  while.  I  will  not  mar 
such  a  day  as  this ; — oh,  my  child,  my  child !"  as  Lena  en- 
tered with  a  little  silver  waiter  and  two  golden  mint 
juleps;  "you  will  make  a  toper  of  your  grandfather  yet. 
Now,  Mr.  Underbill,  loyal  as  I  am  to  the  old  spring  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  at  1 1 :3O  a. 
m.  a  mint  julep,  based  upon  it,  is  an  improvement." 

"I  commend  your  judgment,"  said  Chilon,  "and  will 
break  a  rule  in  honor  of  our  fair  waitress,  and — the  name 
of  your  place  is " 

"Ravenswood !" 

"Of  Ravenswood!" 

"That  drink,"  said  the  Colonel,  nodding,  well  pleased 
and  holding  the  goblet  aloft,  "would  make  any  man  a  bi- 
metallist.  Behold,  sir,  how  the  arctic  silver  is  blended 
with  the  liquid  gold !  Fresh  from  the  mint,  it  is  the  best 
circulating  medium  that  I  know  of." 

"Excellent,  Colonel,  excellent!  You  southerners  know 
how  to  say  such  things.  You  spoke  of  a  disappearance 


RAVENSWOOD.  161 

a  few  moments  ago,"  Chilon  continued,  lifting-  his  lips 
from  his  glass  at  length  and  speaking  carelessly — "a  child 
was  it?" 

"No.  A  nephew  of  mine;  seventeen  years  ago.  The 
circumstances  were  extremely  distressing." 

"Ah!  He  bore  your  family  name?" 

"Yes ;  the  only  son  of  a  dead  brother.  Chilon  was  his 
name.  Chilon  Marbeau." 

The  visitor  lifted  his  glass  and  finished  his  drink  in 
silence. 

"You  spoke  of  him  as  though  he  were  very  young,  Col- 
onel; was  he  married?" 

"Well — yes.    But  we  will  go  into  it  all  after  awhile." 


11 


162  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
LOST  CHORDS. 

It  was  not  a  matter  for  surprise  that  Colonel  Marbeau 
did  not  recognize  his  nephew  in  Robert  Underbill.  The 
changes  that  seventeen  years  had  wrought  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  confuse  any  memory;  but  these,  added 
to  the  circumstances  of  his  return,  rendered  the  disguise 
complete.  In  two  respects,  however,  there  had  been 
none;  the  tone  of  voice  was,  though  fuller  and  deeper,  the 
same.  A  man  may  change  his  inflection,  his  name,  his 
manner  of  speech,  his  voice  tunes — for  the  simplest  ex- 
pression used  in  speech  is  a  species  of  song — but  his  tone, 
once  established,  unless  affected  by  accident,  is  ever  the 
same.  He  thinks  in  words,  and  his  own  ego  is  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  Age  scars  the  face  with  wrinkles,  alters  the 
angles,  whitens  the  hair  and  bends  the  figure;  nay,  it 
even  adds  quavers  to  the  voice  and  changes  its  pitch.  To 
the  man  himself  there  is  no  change  in  the  tone. 

Chilon,  for  a  long  time,  started  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice  at  Ravenswood.  He  could  not  understand  how 
anything  so  natural  was  not  recognized  by  every  one  who 
had  known  him. 

The  other  point  in  which  he  had  not  suffered  change 
was  the  eye  ray,  the  remarkable  light  that  darted  from  his 
pupils.  He  did  not  realize  this,  because  no  eye  can  be 
fully  conscious  of  its  own  brightness,  even  with  a  mirror 
to  assist.  It  cannot  reflect  a  ray  less  bright  than  that 
which  illuminates  it. 

So  it  was  his  eye  and  voice  carried  with  them  some 
vague  suggestion  that  Colonel  Marbeau  could  not  inter- 
pret, disarmed  as  he  was  whenever  he  contemplated  the 
cold,  white  face  turned  toward  his.  There  was  no  ring- 
ing laugh,  no  ready  smile,  nor  nervous  rush  of  words  to 
carry  on  the  thought  until  Chilon  came  back  to  memory; 


LOST  CHORDS.  163 

only  that  white  face  with  gray  ringlets  curved  along  its 
brow;  and  a  man  of  deliberate  movements  and  impas- 
sable dignity. 

He  released  his  guest  at  high  noon ;  habit  is  a  lord  with 
men  nearing  sixty,  and  while  Chilon  accepted  the  sugges- 
tion and  strolled  out  into  the  open,  the  Colonel  laid  a  fan 
over  his  face  and  yielded  to  habit  and  the  hour. 

Chilon  observed  the  little  girl  in  the  garden,  lovingly 
lifting  and  fondling  the  splendid  roses  there.  During 
the  interview  within  doors  he  had  been  haunted  by  a 
vague  fear.  What  if  Lena  Marbeau  were,  after  all,  at 
Ravenswood!  He  had  tried  himself  and  knew  now  that 
surrounded  as  he  was  by  so  many  memories,  he  was  weak. 
He  eagerly  embraced  the  opportunity  presented.  Unac- 
customed to  children  though  he  had  been,  there  was  yet 
something  about  him  that  impressed  this  child  upon  their 
first  meeting.  Perhaps  they  hear  first  of  all  the  note  of 
suffering. 

He  went  toward  her  slowly,  a  rare  smile  upon  his 
face. 

"May  I  not  have  a  rose?"  he  said. 

"Certainly,  sir!"  without  a  change  of  expression  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  a  Devoniensis ;  and  then,  with  a  grav- 
ity equal  to  his  own,  "would  you  like  a  crimson  one?" 
So  had  the  other  stood,  her  hand  upon  a  crimson  rose, 
when  he  gazed  down  from  yonder  window ;  and,  startled 
by  the  picture,  he  looked  up  suddenly. 

Was  there  a  face  at  that  window,  too? 

"I  cannot,"  he  whispered.  "I  cannot  endure  it."  He 
let  the  little  lady  pin  the  rose  upon  his  lapel,  a  sudden 
agony  crushing  his  heart  as  he  saw  her  white  hands 
there,  and  the  great,  brown,  questioning  eyes  lifted  to  his 
again. 

"Thank  you,  my  child;  you  are  very  kind,"  he  whis- 
pered; "very,  very  kind!"  He  laid  his  hands  upon  her 
curls  reverently.  "What  beautiful  hair  you  have.  Was 
your  mamma's  like  this,  soft  and  curly?" 


164  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you — have  to  leave  her  when  you — come  to  visit 
grandfather  at  Ravenswood?" 

"I  never  talk  about  mamma,  sir.  Grandfather  does  not 
wish  me  to." 

"Never  talk  about  mamma!  She  is  not  dead,  child! 
not  dead !" 

"No,  sir." 

"Thank  God !"  he  exclaimed,  and  seeing  her  face  lifted 
and  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears,  he  added,  "for  your 
sake!  She  is  your  best  friend.  Many  a  poor  girl  and 
many  a  poor  boy  might  have  been  spared  untold  misery 
if — God  had  spared  their  mothers.  So  it  seems  to  us!" 

"Papa  is  dead,"  she  said,  gravely.  "He  was  killed  by  a 
tramp  in  the  house  yonder!" 

Chilon  stood  as  though  carved  of  stone.  He  lifted  his 
hands  from  the  orphan's  head  gently.  He  had  forgotten 
for  the  moment  in  the  rush  and  pressure  of  other  mem- 
ories. It  was  a  desecration,  an  insult  to  her  purity,  her 
loyalty,  to  let  her  stand  there  in  ignorance,  with  the  hand 
of  his  murderer  upon  her  head.  He  would  defend  her 
against  himself. 

And  yet  was  he  a  murderer!  Were  words  spoken  in 
the  agony  of  his  wrong  and  ruin,  words  which  were  but 
the  ebullition  of  his  wrath,  entered  up  against  him?  Had 
he,  in  cold  blood,  met  Richard  Marbeau  face  to  face,  un- 
armed or  armed,  would  he  have  deliberately  sought  his 
life?  He  would  not.  And  was  he  guilty  when  the  act 
was  committed  in  the  insanity  of  fever?  No!  Fate  had 
made  him  a  blind  executioner.  He  was  not  a  murderer. 
No  one  had  ever  called  him  that.  No  one  knew  his  act ! 
So  he  reasoned. 

"He  did  not  mean  to  kill  him,  though,"  she  said.  "Papa 
would  not  let  him  get  away.  The  man  was  poor  and 
probably  starving  in  despair,  and  papa  tried  to  shoot  him. 
If  he  had  been  caught  he  would  have  had  to  go  to  prison, 


LOST  CHORDS.  165 

oh!  so  many  years.  And  so  I  pray  to  God  that  he  will 
forgive  him  and  make  him  good!" 

Chilon's  hand  trembled  as  he  placed  it  again  upon  the 
little  head. 

"Who  taught  you  that?"  he  whispered. 

She  did  not  reply.  "God  bless  her,  whoever  she  was; 
God  bless  her!" 

She  stood  with  eyes  cast  down,  her  long,  dark  lashes 
upon  her  fair  cheek,  a  picture  that  would  never  have 
wearied  him.  Her  fingers,  in  her  embarrassment,  were 
stripping  an  unplucked  rose,  the  crimson  petals  falling  at 
her  feet. 

"Have  you  a  little  girl?"  she  asked  presently. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Neither  wife  nor  child — on  earth  or  in  heaven." 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  her  brown  eyes  searching 
his  face  in  wonder. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  simply.  "You  must  sometimes 
be  lonely.  Grandfather  says  he  is  lonely  when  I  am 
away." 

He  had  turned  aside  a  moment  and  was  watching  a 
great  black  and  yellow  butterfly  balancing  himself  upon 
a  blossom.  How  long  it  seemed  since  even  that  little 
vision  had  blessed  his  eyes.  Seeing  his  interest,  she 
joined  him. 

"That  is  the  papilio  turnus.  Chilon  knows  all  about 
him — he  knows  all  about  everything." 

"Chilon!"  The  name  escaped  him  unconsciously — 
why — what  a  strange  name!  And  who  is  Chilon,  my 
child?" 

"Oh,  Chilon  is  my  cousin." 

"Your  cousin!" 

"Yes.  Aunt  Celeste  Aubren  is  his  mother.  I  think 
you  would  like  Chilon;  he  is  so  wise.  I  think 
you  must  be  wise  too,  sir;  you  look  like  Chilon!"  Her 
face  brightened  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  her  smile. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  something  beyond  him.  "Here 


166  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

he  comes  now."  Slowly,  as  though  fearing  another  shock, 
and  yet  prepared,  the  man  turned  his  head  and  saw  coming 
toward  them  a  boy  of  about  fifteen.  He  caught  almost 
every  detail  of  his  appearance  in  one  glance.  Tall  and 
slender,  straight  as  an  arrow,  clad  in  knickerbockers  and 
a  creamy  muslin  shirt,  a  scarlet  handkerchief  knotted  at 
the  throat  and  on  his  head  a  slanting  straw  hat,  the  youth 
presented  a  striking  appearance.  The  face  was  better  re- 
vealed as  he  came  nearer,  with  a  quick  nervous  movement 
that  marked  the  existence  of  some  absorbing  motive. 
But  as  the  boy's  face  grew  clearer  by  near  approach,  the 
man  shrank  back  a  little.  In  the  rather  delicate,  but  not 
diminutive  features,  the  poise  of  head,  the  set  of  mouth, 
something  familiar  cried  out  from  the  past.  And  when 
the  clear,  bright  brown  eyes  met  his  and  seemed  to  search 
his  soul,  and  the  voice  in  response  to  Lena's  introduction 
greeted  him  in  low,  sweet  tones,  he  realizezd  that  the 
Chilon  of  a  generation  past  confronted  him. 

He  controlled  himself  by  a  supreme  effort  and  extended 
his  hand.  What  he  intended  to  say  he  did  not  know. 
What  he  did  say,  was: 

"I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  my  boy.  Little — Lena  has 
been  telling  me  of  you."  The  two  children  exchanged 
glances.  He  saw  then  a  difference,  a  wide  difference  be- 
tween the  phantom  of  the  past  the  meeting  had  called  up, 
and  this  new  personification.  The  momentary  excitement 
gone,  the  boy's  face  resumed  what  was,  evidently,  its 
habitual  expression,  a  thoughtfulness  that  was  almost 
sadness.  The  light,  too,  sank  far  away  into  his  eyes.  He 
shrank  perceptibly  toward  the  girl. 

"Chilon  sees  so  few  strangers,"  she  said  in  explanation; 
and  then  quite  as  a  matter  of  course  she  took  his  hand. 

"I  think  I  am  keeping  you  from  play,"  said  the  man. 
"I  would  not  wish  to  do  that." 

"Chilon  has  come  to  practice  his  music,"  said  the  girl 
quickly. 

"Music!" 


LOST  CHORDS.  167 

"Yes,  sir!     He  is  learning  the  organ  from  me." 

"And  of  course  you  are  a  musician,  too,  then." 

"I  only  play  a  little,  but  I  know  enough  to  teach  him. 
I  have  been  taught  ever  since  I  was  a  baby.  We  practice 
together.  Do  you  play?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  softly,  "sometimes."  The  children's 
faces  brightened  with  interest. 

"The  organ?" 

"Yes."  They  were  never  strangers  again.  They 
moved  nearer  to  him,  excitement  at  once  showing  in  the 
boy's  eyes.  The  little  girl  looked  wistfully  into  his  face, 
saying: 

"Would  you  mind  playing  a  little  for  us?  So  few  peo- 
ple play  who  come."  He  found  himself  charmed  and  in- 
terested. And  the  organ  stood  in  the  room  where  the 
plates  were  hidden. 

"Would  I?  No,  indeed.  But  Grandfather  is  taking 
his  nap." 

"Oh,  we  shall  not  disturb  him.  The  organ  is  down  in 
the  parlor,  and  we  can  shut  the  door.  Besides,  Grand- 
father dearly  loves  the  organ.  He  says  it  always  soothes 
him." 

Chilon  took  a  hand  of  each  and  went  in  doors.  The 
old-fashioned  southern  parlor  with  its  mohair  mahogany 
furniture,  solemn  portraits  and  heavy  hangings  lost  its 
gloom  on  this  occasion.  For  the  costly  vases  had  been 
filled  with  roses  and  the  sunlight  was,  in  defiance  of  an 
important  canon  of  southern  civilization,  pouring  a  flood 
of  light  into  the  crimson  counterfeits  upon  the  carpeted 
floor.  The  tall  pipe  organ  was  thrown  open,  and  as  one 
coming  home  again,  Chilon  seated  himself  upon  the  fa- 
miliar bench  and  let  his  hands  stray  over  the  keys  in 
search  of  a  melody  suited  to  his  mood.  Gradually  the 
notes  arranged  themselves  and  he  found  himself  playing 
that  sadly  beautiful  fancy  of  Sullivan's,  "The  Lost  Chord.'' 
His  lips  framed  no  words,  but  in  his  heart  the  poem  grew 
with  the  melody.  The  exquisite  conception,  reproduced 


168  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

by  one  born  of  harmony  and  possessed  of  rare  technique, 
filled  the  room  and  stole  forth  into  the  faultless  day,  al- 
most a  living  spirit.  Player  and  listeners  were  lost  to  the 
hour  and  the  situation,  and  when  the  pipes  sang  almost 
the  words  of  the  closing  lines: 

It  may  be  that  somewhere  in  heaven 
I   shall   hear  that  chord  again — 

Chilon  found  his  eyes  moist.  No  sound  broke  the  silence 
that  succeeded  the  close.  After  a  few  moments  he  re- 
membered and  looked  upon  his  audience.  Lena's  woman- 
ly face  was  lit  with  a  strange,  sweet  light,  and  with  lips  half 
parted,  she  was  regarding  him,  startled  and  entranced. 
But  the  boy,  his  figure  rigid  from  some  powerful  emotion, 
sat  with  his  eyes  half  closed  and  tears  upon  his  cheeks. 
The  little  girl  turned  quickly  and  saw  them.  Dropping 
to  her  knees,  she  took  his  hands  in  hers. 

"Chilon,  Chilon,"  she  said,  "look  up,  dear.  It  is  I, 
Lena!"  He  lifted  his  face  almost  in  awe,  and  fixed  his 
luminous  eyes  upon  those  of  the  player.  What  message, 
what  signal,  had  passed  from  man  to  boy?  We  do  not 
know;  the  next  century  will  understand.  Rising,  he 
came  to  the  side  of  the  musician  and  laid  his  arms  about 
him. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said,  and  Lena,  her  own  eyes  dim  with 
tears,  came  too,  and  stood  by  them,  with  wistful  face  up- 
lifted. 

In  the  doorway,  until  then  unobserved,  was  Colonel 
Marbeau,  his  martial  figure  erect,  and  a  look  of  intense 
interest  upon  his  face.  For  a  few  moments  only  he  re- 
mained silent,  contemplating  the  little  group. 

"You  are  a  performer,  Mr.  Underbill,  of  no  small  skill. 
I  am  not  a  musician,  but  all  Marbeaus  are  born  with  a 
keen  appreciation  of  music.  It  makes  us  all  impractical, 
they  say,  but  that  matters  little.  Impractical  people  sow 
the  seeds  of  progress  if  they  never  reap." 

"Sometimes  they  reap,  Colonel,  and  a  sad  harvest  it  is. 
This  truth  has  been  forced  upon  me  many  times,  but  I 


LOST  CHORDS.  169 

agree  with  you.  These  young  people,  by  your  test,  are 
true  Marbeaus,  I  perceive;  they  have  music  in  them!'' 
He  placed  an  arm  around  each  and  drew  them  closer. 

Lena's  gift  is  her  voice.  I  think  with  training  it  will  be 
above  the  ordinary.  Daughter,  sing  one  of  your  little 
songs  for  Mr.  Underbill." 

"Certainly,  Grandfather.     Which  one?" 

"Any  will  do.  I  want  Mr.  Underbill  to  tell  me  what  he 
thinks  of  your  voice."  She  thought  a  moment,  and  then 
sang  in  a  clear, soft-toned  soprano,  exquisitely  modulated: 

Somewhere  tonight,  I  know  that  thou  art  weary, 

A  shadow  falls  upon  my  heart, 
And  thou  art  thinking  of  me  only, 

Withdrawn  from  thy  dear  friends  apart, 
Striving  with  the  fervor  of  thy  love  to  be 
At  home,  at  home  again  with  me. 

Before  the  dying  coals  I  see  thee  kneeling 
While  twilight  deepens  in  thy  silent  room, 

And  darkness  from  thy  wistful  face  is  stealing 
All  but  the  whiteness  of  its  bloom. 

Oh,  love,  close  ear  and  eye,  that  thou  mayst  hear  and  see, 

Open  thy  arms,  I  come  to  thee! 

The  beautiful  melody  died  away,  and  silence,  strange 
and  awkward,  followed.  The  boy  stood  looking  down,  his 
chest  rising  and  falling  rapidly.  The  man  at  the  organ 
sat  with  his  hands  resting  upon  the  keys,  his  head  bent 
forward.  He  had  not  played  a  note. 

"What  a  strange,  sad  song,"  he  said  gently,  "and  how  it 
suits  her  voice!" 

"It  is  a  strange,  sad  song,  too  sad  for  a  day  like  this. 
Why  she  should  have  chosen  it  I  can't  imagine.  It  was 
written  by  the  Chilon  Marbeau  of  whom  we  were  speak- 
ing. But  what  of  her  voice,  Mr.  Underbill  ?" 

"She  might  win  fame  and  fortune,  sir,  if  she  would. 
She  is  a  born  singer." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  But  a  woman's  fame  is  broad  enough 
when  it  fills  the  circle  of  her  friends ;  and  as  for  fortune, 
why  I  will  attend  to  that."  And  with  this  slight  discord 
the  old  gentleman  whirled  about  and  sought  his  den. 


THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

NEAR  TO   NATURE'S  HEART. 

The  southern  country  dinner  is  a  noon-day  affair  and 
not  ceremonious.  Colonel  Marbeau  brought  forth  some 
excellent  cigars  after  the  meal. 

"Mr.  Underbill,  take  your  choice;  finish  the  day  with 
the  children  out  of  doors,  or  stay  here  and  be  bored  by  an 
old  man.  However,  I  will  decide  for  you  since  I  see  that 
you  have  a  fondness  for  the  little  folks  and  they  for  you. 
Lena  shall  show  you  about  and  to-morrow  we  may  discuss 
our  matters.  A  souvenir  or  two  of  Virginia  campaigns, 
in  the  shape  of  bullets  in  my  left  hip  and  thigh,  compel  me 
to  keep  within  reach  of  the  house  here.  Where  is  Chilon, 
daughter?" 

"In  the  library!"  The  boy  was  found  lying  face  down 
upon  the  floor  before  the  bookcase,  absorbed  in  an  illus- 
trated volume  of  natural  history,  too  large  to  be  handled 
easily.  He  came  willingly  and  stood  silent  by  Lena's  side 
while  plans  were  discussed. 

"I  think,"  said  the  girl.  "Chilon  is  most  interested  to- 
day in  insects  and  botany." 

"Then,"  said  the  guest,  quickly  yielding  to  the  superior 
claim,  "we  will  follow  him !" 

Their  way  led  by  the  mill,  whose  whirring  rocks  were 
adding  a  monotonous  note  to  the  hour.  The  boy  was 
soon  separated  from  them,  oblivious  to  everything  else, 
in  his  occupation ;  the  others  found  a  shady  log  near  the 
water  and  the  visitor  took  from  her  hands  Lena's  sketch 
book. 

"I  suppose  I  may  look,"  he  said  with  deference. 

"You  are  an  artist!"  she  replied,  quickly. 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"     She  reflected  a  moment: 

"You  would  not  have  asked  if  you  were  not.      You 


NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART.  I71 

would  have  just  looked.  So  my  teacher  once  told  a  gen- 
tleman !" 

"A  keen  observation.  You  are  right;  it  is  the  un- 
taught person  who  opens  an  artist's  book  without  per- 
mission— but  I  am  still  waiting." 

"You  may  look,"  she  said,  smiling,  "I  don't  think  you 
will  criticize."  The  pictures  were  crude,  but  bold,  the 
points  of  view  well  chosen  and  perspective  good.  He 
noted  these  points  quickly.  "I  will  return  your  compli- 
ment," he  said,  "you  are  an  artist." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?''  and  then,  "You  see  I  have  re- 
turned your  question,  Mr.  Underhill." 

"Well,  the  effect  is  what  you  seem  to  seek,  rather  than 
mere  detail ;  and  young  as  you  are,  it  shows  in  your  work. 
I  think,  my  child,  you  should  be  classed  as  a  juvenile  im- 
pressionist. The  wind  in  these  bushes  along  the  mill 
dam  is  very  apparent,  and  this  pigeon,  while  he  violates 
all  the  canons  of  pigeonhood  as  accepted,  is  evidently  try- 
ing to  alight  after  a  long  flight."  Her  face  flushed  a  lit- 
tle, and  she  looked  up  from  under  her  dark  lashes  with 
embarrassment. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  laughing  at  me,  sir." 

"Laughing?  No,  indeed.  You  have  more  to  start 
with  my  child  than  many  artists  acquire  in  half  a  life- 
time. Some  ancestor  has  passed  his  genius  to  you.  You 
must  now  learn  to  use  your  hand.  Sit  still  on  your  end  of 
the  log  and  let  me  see  if  I  have  forgotten."  Rapidly  he 
sketched  the  little  figure  in  profile,  the  background  a 
stretch  of  smooth  water  with  the  old  mill  and  deep  green 
of  the  woods  beyond.  The  heavy  shadows  gave  him 
chance  for  strong  contrasts.  The  likeness  was  easy;  he 
but  copied  from  within.  The  child's  grave  face  and  clus- 
tering curls,  her  hat  hanging  loosely,  and  her  hands 
clasped  carelessly  in  her  lap,  formed  an  exquisitely  beauti- 
ful picture.  When  he  had  finished  he  watched  her  a  mo- 
ment, with  inexpressible  sadness.  She  brightened  at  once 
at  sight  of  the  picture. 


172  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"And  is  that  of  me?"  she  asked  in  wonder.  "How 
beautifully  it  is  drawn,  and  how  quickly!  Oh!  Why, 

sir,  I  have  a  picture  in  a  scrap  book! "  She  stopped 

abruptly.  But  she  did  not  need  to  finish  the  sentence. 
A  shadow  fell  upon  the  man's  face.  He  understood  and 
was  greatly  disturbed. 

"I  think  then  I  shall  let  you  give  me  this  one,"  he  said, 
quickly. 

"Oh,  do  you  want  it,  sir? — I — ;  the  other  is  not  mine, 
you  know!'' 

"Then  keep  it  child,  I  can  draw  another  from  memory." 
After  all  what  did  it  matter.  Chilon,  the  boy,  came  up 
then. 

"See,  Lena,  I've  got  him  at  last.  Not  a  leg  broken!" 
He  held  a  spider  between  thumb  and  finger,  the  black  legs 
of  the  little  beast  spreading  two  inches  in  every  direction, 
his  mandibles  clicking  ominously.  She  drew  back  in 
alarm. 

"Take  care,  my  son,  that  is  an  ugly  looking  customer," 
said  her  companion. 

"Not  poisonous,"  said  the  boy  simply.  "He  belongs  to 
the  riparians.  It  is  hard  to  get  one  perfect;  their  legs 
drop  off  like  dead  leaves  from  a  tree."  In  a  little  per- 
forated box  that  he  drew  from  his  pocket,  was  heard  a 
faint  buzzing.  The  box  was  attached  to  a  larger  one  by  a 
wire  in  the  bottom.  Placing  the  open  end  of  this  one  to 
his  ear  the  boy  listened  intently,  a  pleased  expression 
upon  his  thoughtful  face. 

"There  is  an  ichneumon  fly  in  there." 

"Dirt-dauber,"  said  Lena,  seeing  their  guest's  puzzled 
expression. 

"He  builds  his  little  mud  nests  under  the  mill.  The 
note  he  makes  with  his  wings  is  the  same  as  the  note  made 
by  the  mill." 

"True,"  said  the  man,  taking  the  cup  and  listening. 
"Many  octaves  above,  but  the  same  note." 

"He  also  builds  up  in  our  garret  and  at  night  when  the 


NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART.        I?3 

wind  hums  up  there,  it  makes  the  same  note.  Would  you 
say  that  they  go  to  the  garret  and  the  mill  because  they 
like  the  sound,  or  do  they  take  their  note  from  the  place 
they  build  in?" 

"I  am  not  a  scientist,"  said  the  man,  smiling,  and  speak- 
ing to  Lena,  "so  you  see  you  children  have  me  at  a  disad- 
vantage at  last.  What  do  you  think,  my  boy?" 

"I  think  that  their  wings  vibrate  more  easily  when  they 
vibrate  with  the  air  around  them." 

"Maybe  so;  but  I  have  a  suspicion  that  your  friend,  the 
dirt-dauber,  as  Lena  calls  him,  frequents  garrets  and  mills 
because  the  spiders  do.  They  are,  as  you  probably  know, 
mortal  enemies.  The  fly  catches  the  spider,  paralyzes 
him  by  stinging  back  of  the  head,  and  tucks  him  away  in 
the  little  dirt  nest  where  he  puts  an  egg.  The  warmth  of 
the  spider  helps  to  hatch  the  egg  and  then  the  little  grub 
feeds  upon  him.  Am  I  right?  That  is  my  recollection, 
for  I  used  to  watch  them  when  I  was  a  little  boy." 

"Yes,"  said  the  child  positively,  "that  is  what  the  books 
say;  but  he  does  not  sting  the  spider.  He  tickles  him  un- 
til he  is  asleep.  All  the  family  can  be  tickled  to  sleep, 
from  the  crab  down  to  the  wood-tick.  I  will  find  a  tick 
sometime  and  show  you.  Try  these  big  spiders  and  you 
will  see  them  roll  up  and  sleep.  I  have  tried  them.'' 

"Chilon  is  finding  out  the  note  that  every  flying  insect 
makes,"  said  Lena,  her  eyes  following  her  playmate  as  he 
passed  on.  "We  try  them  with  the  organ.  But  he  can 
tell  nearly  always  from  memory.  He  says  that  if  we 
could  hear  better — hear  well  enough  to  find  one  of  these 
insects  a  hundred  yards  away,  there  would  be  so  much 
noise  in  the  world  people  would  have  to  talk  by  signs." 
The  elder  Chilon  shook  his  head. 

"Where  does  he  get  such  ideas?  It  would  be  better 
for  him  to  play  more  and  let  brain  work  alone." 

"Oh,  Chilon  never  plays.  He  will  not  ride,  or  swim,  or 
row ;  I  wish  he  would.  Sometimes  he  worries  me,"  said 
the  little  woman.  "He  not  only  hears  insects'  wings,  but 


174  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

he  hears  voices  around  him  when  I  can't.  He  says  it  is 
because  he  can  hear  better  than  I  can;  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  him  that  answers  to  vibrations  too  fine  for  me. 
Do  you  believe  that,  sir?" 

"It  may  be  true,"  said  Chilon.  "I  am  sure  he  must  be- 
lieve it." 

"Yes,  indeed.  He  could  not  tell  a  falsehood.  Why, 
sometimes  when  it  is  lightning  he  declares  that  he  hears 
it  or  feels  it,  he  doesn't  know  which.  You  saw  how  he 
watched  you  this  morning?  He  told  me  after  you  left 
the  parlor  that  he  had  heard  your  voice  somewhere  many 
and  many  a  time.  But  that  couldn't  be,  I  know.  He 
said,  too,  that  when  I  was  singing  this  morning,  he  kept 
thinking  about  a  girl  who  looked  like  me  but  wasn't,  and 
believed  that  Mr.  Underhill  was  thinking  of  the  same 
girl.  He  is  very  strange  sometimes,  but  he  is  good  and 
loves  me.  Sometimes  he  calls  me  little  sister.  I  think 
that  I  must  understand  him  better  than  anybody.  Aunt 
Celeste  never  did  understand  him,  but  she  loves  him  very 
much."  So  the  wise  little  tongue  discoursed  upon  its  fa- 
vorite topic : — Chilon.  She  did  not  notice  that  the  man  by 
her  side  was  startled  and  almost  breathless  for  an  instant. 

"Hasn't  Chilon  been  away  to  school  yet?'' 

"Oh,  no,  sir!  Aunt  Celeste's  grandfather  has  been 
teaching  him  until  this  year,  when  he  died.  And,  oh,  he 
taught  him  everything! — all  about  the  gods  and  goddess- 
es of  the  old  times — you  know;  and  Chilon  says  they  were 
all  real.  It  wasn't  any  trouble  to  teach  Chilon;  he  says 
he  came  into  the  world  educated  and  all  they  had  to  do 
was  to  remind  him  of  what  he  had  forgotten.  Isn't  that  a 
funny  idea?" 

"Very.  The  poor  little  fellow  seems  very  grave  for 
one  so  young." 

"Oh,  he  is  not  now.  But  sometimes  he  is  so  sad;  and 
if  I  did  not  sing  to  him,  I  don't  know  what  would  become 
of  him.  He  goes  off  in  the  woods  and  fields  and  stays  all 
day,  sometimes  lying  upon  his  back  and  watching  the 


NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART.  175 

clouds,  and  sometimes  watching  them  in  the  lake.  He 
sometimes  is  lonely  in  the  night  and  can't  sleep,  and  then 
he  gets  out  quietly  and  comes  over  here,  but  not  to  come 
in.  A  lamp  burns  all  night  in  one  of  the  rooms  up- 
stairs;— did  you  speak?" 

"No, — no,  my  child!     You  were  saying !" 

"He  says  he  doesn't  feel  lonely  when  he  can  see  that 
light,  and  after  awhile  he  goes  back  home  and  sleeps." 

"Strange!     Strange!" 

"And  I  feel  so  sorry  for  Chilon.  Sometimes,  before  I 
go  to  bed,  I  stand  at  the  window  and  sing  a  song,  because 
my  singirfg  always  quiets  him,  and  I  think  maybe  he  will 
hear  me  and  go  home  to  sleep.  Please  don't  tell  anyone 
about  Chilon.  I  don't  know  why  I  told  you ;  but  if  they 
found  it  out  over  home  his  mother  might  make  him  prom- 
ise her  to  stay  there  and  that  would  make  him  more  un- 
happy ;  for  Chilon  never  breaks  a  promise." 

"You  may  trust  me.  I  will  not  tell !  But  does  he  come 
here  often,  now? — in  the  day  time?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Grandfather  lets  him  come  to  get  books 
and  study  music  with  me.  I  think  he  is  more  interested 
in  studying — vibration  than  the  music  itself.  Do  you  re- 
member how  many  vibrations  one  can  hear; — isn't  it 
thirty-six  thousand  to  the  second?  Chilon  told  me  but  I 
have  forgotten." 

"Something  like  that,  I  believe." 

"Well,  Chilon  says,  and  he  knows,  that  after  we 
lose  the  vibrations  at  thirty-six  thousand  we  never  know 
anything  more  about  them  until  they  come  so  fast  they 
form  light, — many  hundred  millions  to  the  second;  and 
between  the  last  sound  we  can  hear  and  the  first  light  we 
can  see  with  our  ears  and  eyes,  is  the  unknown  world. 
If  we  could  hear  all  the  way  up  or  see  all  the  way  down 
we  would  know  everything.  He  can  hear  a  great  many, 
— twice  as  many  vibrations  as  I  can ;  and  so  he  says  many 
things  come  to  him  that  no  one  else  knows;  only  he  isn't 
able  to  understand  them  yet." 


.176  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"You  will  be  educated  on  a  queer  line  if  you  stick  to 
Chilon,  my  dear.  He  is  a  dreamer.  It  will  be  hard  for 
him  when  he  must  put  aside  all  these  ideas  and  face  the 
world.  I  wonder  if  he  ever  thinks  of  that!" 

"No,  sir.  Chilon  hasn't  ever  been  further  than  the  city 
and  says  that  he  will  never  go  back  there  again.  It's  too 
noisy  for  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  the  little  fellow. 
His  future  is  not  apt  to  be  a  bright  one."  Chilon  came  up 
at  that  moment  and  looked  questioningly  into  their  faces. 

"I  think  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  finally.  Lena  took 
his  hand. 

"We  were  only  saying  nice  things  of  you,  Chilon,  dear." 

"Come  and  tell  me  about  vibration,  my  boy,"  said  the 
elder  Chilon;  "perhaps  I  may  interest  you."  The  boy 
nodded  and  lifting  his  hat,  turned  away.  But  the  next  in- 
stant he  was  back  again. 

"Will  you  say  that  again?"  he  asked  earnestly,  "just  as 
you  said  it  before?"  The  man  smiling,  repeated  the  sen- 
tence. The  boy  looked  long  and  steadily  into  his  face, 
shook  his  head  slowly  and  disappeared  in  the  wood. 


"LOOKING  BACKWARD."  177 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
"LOOKING  BACKWARD." 

The  full  moon  rose  grandly,  its  white  light  striking 
across  the  corner  of  the  veranda  where  the  chairs  of  the 
gentlemen  had  been  placed.  Little  Lena  came  to  them  and 
leaned  lightly  upon  Colonel  Marbeau's  shoulder  as  he 
smoked  and  listened  to  the  stranger  who  spoke  upon  the 
topics  of  the  day.  The  latter  possessed  for  her  a  singular 
fascination,  and  ever  as  he  turned  his  gaze  upon  her, 
standing  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon,  he  found  her  eyes 
resting  upon  him.  But  when  9  o'clock  came  she  went 
away  with  a  kiss  for  one  and  a  courtesy  for  the  other  of 
the  two  men.  Chilon  noticed,  however,  that  instead  of 
entering  the  house  at  once  she  paused  and  stood  gazing 
thoughtfully  into  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  woods.  If 
she  listened  for  any  unusual  sound  she  apparently  heard 
none.  Only  the  monotonous  thump  of  the  water-ram, 
the  drone  of  the  falls  and  the  shrill  chorus  of  the  crickets 
came  to  them. 

When  she  had  gone  within,  silence  fell  upon  the  little 
group.  One  of  the  two  was  busy  with  memories,  the 
other  revolving  in  mind  the  case  which  he  wished  to  pre- 
sent. 

Chilon  spoke  first,  his  train  of  thoughts  having  led  up 
to  the  same  subject. 

"I  am  afraid,  Colonel,  you  are  going  to  find  it  difficult 
to  give  me  just  such  a  statement  concerning  your  nephew 
as  I  may  wish.  Few  people  possess  the  power  of  clearly 
stating  orally  a  case  and  presenting  all  the  features  of  it  in 
proper  order,  and  fewer  still  possess  the  mind  to  hold  and 
reproduce  it  without  confusion.  In  the  little  time  that  I 
have  been  enabled  to  think  upon  this  subject  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  shall  need  a  calm,  dispassionate  his- 
tory in  writing,  and  I  believe  you  will  prefer  to  give  it  to 
12 


178  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

me  that  way,  when  you  have  considered  all  the  circum- 
stances well." 

"I  like  your  idea,  sir.  It  will  give  me  a  better  oppor- 
tunity, as  you  say.  And,  besides,  I  wish  just  such  a  his- 
tory preserved.  I  have,  in  view  of  the  uncertainty  which 
attends  the  fate  of  my  nephew,  made  notes  which  will  be 
of  use." 

"I  trust,  then,  that  you  will  make  it  as  full  as  possible. 
Much  that  you  may  consider  useless  might  be  valuable  to 
one  who  has  to  create  in  mind  a  person  and  determine 
whither  his  controlling  characteristics  have  led  him. 
There  is  but  one  place  to  begin,  and  that  is  the  beginning; 
and  there  is  involved  in  this  disappearance  not  only  ac- 
quired mental  and  moral  characteristics,  but  inherited 
ones.  Heredity  has  much  to  do  with  us;  the  disaster, 
mortification,  or  wounded  pride  that  one  man  would  for- 
get in  a  month  would  last  another  a  lifetime.  Your  fam- 
ily is  of  French  extraction?  The  name  would  so  indi- 
cate." 

"Yes.  The  first  of  the  name  came  to  this  country, 
about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  under  pecu- 
liar circumstances.  Do  you  know  the  history  of  the  Saltz- 
burgers?  I  presume  not.  It  was  a  colony  of  very  re- 
markable people  who  came  to  this  state  from  Austria. 
Persecuted  for  religion's  sake,  exiled,  they  made  their  way 
through  Germany  to  England,  and  thence  to  Georgia. 
Their  moral  strength,  their  devotion  to  each  other,  their 
faith  in  each  other,  were  almost  unparalleled.  They  are 
still  in  this  state  a  distinct  people,  blindly  devoted  to  each 
other,  and  fearless  in  defense  of  principles  and  priv- 
ileges. Religious  as  they  were,  and  still  are,  they  never 
made  an  enemy  of  a  friend,  nor  a  friend  of  an  enemy " 

"So  that  if  your  family  has  a  Saltzburger  strain,  we  may 
expect  to  find  something  of  these  characteristics  in  this 
generation?" 

The  Colonel  was  silent  a  moment. 


"LOOKING  BACKWARD." 

"That  had  not  occurred  to  me  directly,  but  I  believe  the 
characteristics  remain." 

"But  your  name  is  French?" 

"It  was  this  way:  Our  ancestor  was  a  Huguenot  ref- 
ugee in  Germany  when  these  people  were  fleeing  from 
persecution.  Gay,  highborn  and  careless,  he  was  just 
such  a  man  as  would  dazzle  and  captivate  a  young  woman 
austerely  raised.  He  met  his  fate  in  Lena  Zegler.  By 
chance  he  was  enabled  to  protect  her  from  insult  and  thus 
gained  an  acquaintance.  She,  modest  as  she  was  beauti- 
ful, and  beautiful  beyond  comparison,  enslaved  his  fancy. 
He  was  a  younger  son,  with  no  home  nor  any  ties  to  bind 
him.  Parting  he  found  impossible,  and  so  he  cast  in  his 
lot  with  the  Austrians  and  came  to  Georgia.  His  services 
gained  him  the  respect  and  gratitude  of  the  colonists  and 
his  bride. 

"But  it  was  not  long  before  he  found  himself  out  of 
harmony  with  the  life  about  him,  for  nothing  could  pre- 
sent a  greater  contrast  than  a  noble  Frenchman  and  an 
Austrian  peasant.  Family  changes  abroad  put  him  in 
better  financial  condition.  He  went  back  to  France, 
children  were  born,  and  when  he  came  here  again  he  took 
up  city  life.  His  children  laid  the  foundation  of  this 
home." 

"So,  then  again,  if  heredity  controls,  the  Marbeaus  are 
restless  and  eccentric,  with  devoted  and  beautiful  women 
in  all  generations,  and  men  light-hearted  or  top-heavy  as 
the  French  or  Austrian  predominates." 

"A  novel  presentation,"  said  Colonel  Marbeau,  "but  not 
bad.  Our  family  record,  now  unfortunately  mislaid, 
shows  this  to  be  true.  But  we  have  had  Austrian  rein- 
forcement more  than  once,  and  the  latest  was  the  mother 
of  the  young  man  who  is  gone — Chilon  Marbeau,  son  of 
my  brother  Francis." 

"Indeed!" 

"The  world  never  knew  a  grander  woman  than  the  wife 
of  Francis."  The  old  man  bowed  his  head  as  if  in  rever- 


l8o  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

ence  to  some  visions  he  beheld.  "She  made  her  choice — 
it  was  Francis  or  me.  She  chose  the  better  of  the  two. 
Francis  fell  at  Gettysburg.  She  did  not  long  survive." 

The  silence  was  at  length  broken  by  the  guest. 

"You  say  this  Chilon  was  a  young  man?" 

"Twenty,  I  think.  And  it  was  seventeen  years  ago  that 
he  left  us." 

"You  believe  him  dead?" 

"I  do.  But  circumstances  force  me  now  to  make  an  ef- 
fort to  find  him." 

"Circumstances?" 

"Which  I  may  not  relate.  They  can  have  no  bearing 
upon  the  case  that  would  affect  the  search." 

"I  regret  your  position  in  this  matter  very  much,"  said 
Chilon  after  a  pause.  "The  very  circumstances  to  which 
you  refer  might  furnish  the  clue  we  need.  But  I  appre- 
ciate your  difficulty ;  and,  after  all,  the  failure  affects  you 
most,  if  fail  we  must." 

"The  circumstances  cannot  be  considered,"  said  the 
other  quietly.  "They  are  simply  too  painful — besides, 
they  involve " 

Chilon  waited,  but  the  sentence  was  never  finished. 

"I  see  now,"  he  said,  "that  my  suggestion  was  a  good 
one.  The  case  has  many  roots  and  branches.  Give  it  to 
me  in  writing.  With  this  to  study  upon,  I  may  advise 
you  by  letter  if  I  am  called  away.  I  only  request  that 
you  give  me  every  detail  that  you  feel  at  liberty  to  use,  in 
connection  with  your  nephew's  life,  and  the  reason  for  this 
search.  In  other  words,  give  me  his  life  story  and  the 
lives  of  those  with  whom  he  was  thrown — their  former 
and  after  history."  Colonel  Marbeau  nodded  without 
speaking.  But,  after  reflection,  he  said: 

"If  in  this,  Mr.  Underbill,  I  write  my  own  history  to 
some  extent,  you  will  please  bear  in  mind  that  Charles 
Marbeau  of  the  present  and  of  the  past,  are  two  different 
men.  Haunted  by  the  sorrows  and  tragedies  of  my  life, 
I  have  studied  all  the  causes  of  my  affliction,  and  from  the 


"LOOKING  BACKWARD." 


181 


people  about  me  I  have  secured  the  missing  links  of  the 
story.  My  errors  have  been  great,  but  my  sorrows  are 
greater.''  His  hearer  turned  away  his  face  quickly. 

"I  regret,  almost,  sir,  that  I  have  placed  this  task  upon 
you.'' 

"Say  no  more.  It  will,  in  many  respects,  be  a  satis- 
faction for  me  to  write  this  story.  I  may  require  several 
days,  but  you  will  not  lose  in  the  end.  You  said  that  in- 
somnia and  the  habit  of  night  work  had  made  you  an  in- 
convenient guest,  and  so  with  your  convenience  in  view 
I  have  had  you  assigned  to  the  room  in  the  rear  of  the 
parlor.  It  opens  on  the  side  veranda  and  will  afford  you 
perfect  freedom.  And  there  is  the  parlor,  with  the  or- 
gan ;  Lena  and  the  woods.  She  is  young,  but  will  inter- 
est you;  and  you  have  won  her,  already.  Now,  my 
health  depends  upon  a  certain  amount  of  sleep — and  if 
you  will  excuse  me " 

"Why,  certainly.     Good  night,  sir!" 

"Good  night,  and  pleasant  dreams,  Mr.  Underbill.  If 
you  wish  to  remain  up  why  the  front  door  is  not  often 
closed.  And  if  you  desire  music,  you  will  disturb  no  one. 
Music  is  the  Marbeau  anodyne.  Good  night." 


182  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
THE  DREAMS  THAT  COME. 

Chilon  sat  long  after  his  uncle  had  retired.  Although 
his  approach  to  his  new  situation  had  been  deliberate  and 
gradual,  now  that  the  events  of  the  few  days  that  had  in- 
tervened since  his  departure  from  New  York  were  behind 
him,  he  seemed  only  to  have  just  stepped  from  his  hotel 
into  sacred  memories.  One  figure  was  gone,  however, 
the  glory  of  them  all.  And  he,  the  new  Chilon,  did  not 
seem  to  belong  there.  He  was  an  intruder,  an  interloper. 

As  he  sat  in  thought  he  heard  in  the  distance  some 
simple  melody  and  thought  of  little  Lena  and  her  strange 
story.  Obeying  an  impulse,  he  went  forth  into  the  woods 
and  stood  where  he  might  view  that  window  once  so  eag- 
erly watched  four  years  before.  She  was  there,  the  girl, 
singing,  while  in  the  window  upon  her  right  a  lamp  was 
burning.  It  was  so  real,  so  vivid  a  reproduction,  he 
could  scarcely  refrain  from  crying  aloud  to  the  singer. 
In  the  moonlight  the  figure  of  the  girl  seemed  womanly, 
and  in  the  still  night  her  voice  was  a  woman's  indeed.  The 
song,  the  tones,  the  scene,  overcame  him.  He  almost  ran 
from  the  spot.  But  once  he  paused  to  listen;  surely,  no 
child's  voice  possessed  that  strength  and  compass?  None 
but  a  woman  who  had  lived  and  loved  could  produce 
those  tones?  He  shook  his  head  and  resolutely  passed 
from  the  place  out  of  sound  of  the  singer. 

But  Chilon,  in  yielding  once  to  his  heart,  had  lost  self 
control.  He  no  longer  sought  to  avoid  thoughts  of  the 
past.  By  the  lakeside,  that  night,  upon  its  glassy  surface, 
in  the  little  boat,  and  in  the  dark  avenues  so  well  known 
to  his  wandering  feet,  he  gave  himself  up  to  memory  and 
to  grief.  It  was  the  last  time,  perhaps.  He  did  not  care; 
each  spot  had  its  memory;  it  was  like  a  resurrection  for 
him  to  be  there.  Where  the  swinging  muscadines  fell 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  COME.  183 

in  festoons,  he  stood  and  dreamed  of  the  summer  when 
they  climbed  and  swung  among  them.  Where  the  grassy 
log  ran  out  and  sank  its  moss  in  the  waters,  he  bent  his 
head  in  anguish ;  the  picture  he  had  drawn  of  her  was  clear 
cut  within  his  brain.  By  the  dank,  dark  margins  where 
grow  the  azaleas  and  the  jessamine  he  saw  her  covered 
and  wreathed  with  nature's  spring  triumphs,  and  in  the 
silvery  moonlit  waters  her  face  smiled  up  into  his  own; 
the  hour  was  full  of  bitter  sweets.  Over  all  hung  the 
remembrance  of  his  eternal  loss! 

Chance  brought  him  near  to  the  old  sycamore,  their 
postoffice,  and  there,  unable  to  throw  off  his  fantasies  or 
longer  command  himself,  he  felt  the  tears  rise  up  and 
creep  upon  his  cheeks.  It  was  yesterday,  only,  that  he 
found  there  her  little  letters — her  pledges  of  love  and  af- 
fection. Would  she  ever  come  again?  Would  she? 

Nervous,  depressed  and  trembling,  he  saw  through  the 
mist  in  his  eyes  a  vision  so  real,  so  life-like,  that  he  almost 
cried  aloud.  A  woman,  dressed  in  some  light  fabric  that 
half  revealed  and  half  concealed  her  girlish  form,  stood 
by  the  hollow  tree  and,  looking  about  cautiously,  thrust 
her  hand  within.  For  a  time  she  waited,  in  deep 
thought,  apparently,  and  then  began  slowly  to  retreat 
into  the  dark  recesses  behind  her.  At  this  moment,  so  it 
seemed,  a  slender  boy  came  and,  touching  the  woman's 
arm,  looked  into  her  eyes.  She  bent  and  kissed  his  fore- 
head, and,  with  her  arm  about  him,  slowly  disappeared. 

Chilon  found  himself  standing  with  both  hands  grasp- 
ing a  small  sapling,  his  face  deluged  with  perspiration. 
He  had  not  the  slightest  superstition.  He  accepted  the 
scene  as  the  evidence  of  a  brain  disordered.  Long  brood- 
ing had  achieved  his  destruction.  The  next  phenomenon 
would  be  paresis.  Life  would  end  for  him  in  a  hospital 
or  private  retreat  among  strangers.  But  his  work  was 
not  done.  Resolutely,  revived  by  this  remembrance,  he 
threw  off  his  mood  and  returned  to  the  house. 

But  Chilon  was  not  to  escape  so  easily.     As  he  placed 


I&4  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

his  foot  upon  the  gravel  walk,  the  figure  of  the  woman 
glided  across  the  veranda  and  disappeared  through  a  par- 
lor window. 

In  his  room  he  spent  hours  contemplating  his  new  peril. 
At  length,  he  slept,  awakening  with  a  start,  thrilled  by 
that  singular  sensation  which  the  presence  of  another  per- 
son in  a  darkened  room  produces  upon  sensitive  nerves. 
Again  he  beheld  the  same  figure.  This  time  it  passed 
from  his  window  and  as,  with  bursting  veins,  he  followed, 
he  saw  it  vanish  again  within  the  parlor.  He  slept  no 
more  that  night.  The  warning  of  the  old  voodoo  re- 
turned— "dreams  will  come;  some  of  them  won't  go." 
No  further  visions  came  that  night,  but  once  he  fancied 
that  he  heard  again,  somewhere  above  him,  the  sound  of 
the  girl's  voice  lifted  in  song.  He  had,  however,  ceased 
to  trust  his  senses. 

As  Chilon  lay  oppressed  by  his  thoughts  and  the  new- 
fear  upon  his  mind,  he  was  sensible  of  a  keen  regret  that 
he  had  ever  given  his  consent  to  make  the  experiment. 
He  had  not  been  equal  to  the  task  set  for  himself.  His 
old  life  with  its  passions  and  sentiment  was  not  dead. 

But  could  he  retreat?  Yes,  fortunately,  he  had  asked 
for  the  Colonel's  statement  in  writing.  He  would  have 
with  it  the  history  of  his  people,  and  perhaps  all  the  mys- 
teries unfolded.  He  might  plead  a  telegraphic  summons 
and  go.  He  felt  that  it  was  beyond  his  philosophy  to  en- 
dure another  night  in  that  house,  and  disguise  it  as  he 
might,  there  was  within  him  a  great  disappointment,  al- 
though the  object  of  his  coming  had  not  been  as  yet 
even  sought.  The  plates! 

Chilon  aroused  himself.  The  thought  was  a  clarion 
call  to  duty,  or  revenge.  He  passed  into  the  hall  and  up- 
stairs to  the  old  ball  room.  The  door  was  locked.  As 
he  stood  dismayed  and  perplexed,  the  swish  of  a  woman's 
garment  passed  him  and  a  slight  breath  of  air  fanned  his 
cheek.  Impulsively,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
touched  someone,  holding  on  until  two  hands  deliber- 


THE   DREAMS   THAT   COME.  185 

ately,  and,  it  seemed  to  him,  with  resistless  strength,  un- 
did his  fingers'  clasp.  When  he  caught  madly  again  at 
the  object,  nothing  but  air  was  there.  Footsteps,  light 
quick  footsteps,  fled  down  the  hall,  and  a  low,  sweet  laugh 
floated  back. 


186  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
THE  GHOSTS  OF  RAVENSWOOD. 

Chilon  escaped  from  the  house  at  early  dawn  and  by  a 
plunge  in  the  lake  restored  to  his  nerves  their  accustomed 
steadiness.  He  returned  for  breakfast,  and,  early  as  it 
was,  found  Colonel  Marbeau  engaged  upon  his  writing. 
The  elder  gentleman,  stimulated  by  the  circumstances 
surrounding  him,  threw  himself  with  all  the  ardor  of  an 
excitable  temperament  into  the  recital  of  the  romance 
that  had  involved  so  many  of  his  family,  and,  true  to  his 
agreement,  sought  to  let  no  detail  escape  him.  Family 
pride  with  him,  as  with  many  men  late  in  life,  was  almost 
a  weakness,  and  brooding  over  the  story  of  his  household 
had  prepared  him  for  a  volume.  Early  after  the  morning 
meal  he  excused  himself  and  left  his  guest  to  his  own  de- 
vices. Lena  came  to  the  rescue,  and  the  two  soon  drifted 
into  the  parlor,  where,  behind  closed  doors,  he  drew  from 
the  organ  such  music  as  the  girl  had  but  rarely  heard. 
He  tempted  her  to  sing  her  little  ballads,  and  once  even 
added  his  tenor.  This  was  in  their  last  song,  "My  Lady's 
Bower,"  and  when  the  sweet  strains  died  away,  they 
turned  to  find  the  boy,  Chilon,  leaning  against  the  win- 
dow frame  thoughtfully  listening  to  them.  Aroused,  he 
fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  musician  a  sad,  penetrating 
gaze.  The  boy's  mood  conquered  the  other's;  the  man 
soon  realized  that  it  was  the  highest  expression  of  the 
conversational  art  to  furnish  entertainment  for  such  a  na- 
ture, and  found  himself  silent.  The  little  fellow  spoke  at 
length. 

"We  have  met  before,  haven't  we?'' 

"Never,  until  yesterday.  That  is,  not  in  this  life  at 
least,"  said  the  other,  smiling. 

"Then  in  some  other,''  replied  the  boy,  conclusively. 

"You  are  a  theosophist,  then,  my  little  friend — a  rein- 
carnationist." 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  RAVENSWOOD.  187 

"We  have  met  many  times  before ;  we  will  meet  again, 
perhaps.  In  some  way,  I  know  that  we  have  been  friends 
once ;  but  where,  I  can't  remember."  There  was  no  hesi- 
tation in  this.  It  seemed  to  the  man  cruel  to  disturb  such 
faith  in  a  theory.  But  the  child's  next  remark  was  start- 
ling. "Why  are  you  unhappy,  Mr.  Underbill?" 

"Why  should  you  think  me  unhappy?" 

"Because  music  changes  your  look." 

"Chilon  is  that  way,"  said  Lena,  in  explanation.  "I 
call  them  music  shadows,  for  when  I  sing  to  him,  his  eyes 
grow  dark  and  beautiful.  They  are  lighter  when  he  is 
alone  and  thinking." 

"And  so  does  yours  change,"  said  the  boy  to  the  strang- 
er. "They  are  light  and  like  the  winter  sky ;  but  when  you 
have  been  singing  and  playing  as  you  were  just  now,  they 
are  dark  and  almost  brown." 

"Did  you  notice  such  a  change?"  said  the  startled  man, 
turning  to  Lena.  ".How  are  they  now?'' 

"Yes,  sir.  But  they  are  light  again."  He  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  of  his  companions,  amazed.  It  was  im- 
possible to  connect  such  faces  with  jest  or  deceit.  He 
arose,  greatly  agitated.  One  of  his  defenses  was  gone. 
The  children  had  unwittingly  done  him  a  service,  the  val- 
ue of  which  was  beyond  estimate.  He  turned  to  the  open 
air  for  quiet. 

The  three  friends  wandered  away  to  the  fields  and 
woods,  the  children,  in  their  own  ways,  happy  in  the  com- 
panionship of  the  man  who  could  play  and  sing  and  draw 
so  well,  and  who  could  enter  so  easily  into  their  lives. 
For  him,  in  some  mysterious  way,  they  felt  an  irresistible 
attachment.  Something  like  happiness  that  morning 
came  to  him.  In  them  he  seemed  to  be  living  over  again 
the  life  of  both  himself  and  the  woman  who  had  loved 
him. 

Their  amusements  were  novel.  This  time  it  was  the 
boy  who  taught  him.  They  found  a  colony  of  ants  in  a 
piece  of  clay  ground  and  wondered  at  their  numbers. 


188  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

Little  Chilon  told  him  how  he  first  saw  them  in  the  early 
Spring  come  forth  from  under  a  rock  and  march  almost 
two  and  two  for  hundreds  of  yards;  how  he  timed  them, 
finding  their  speed  to  be  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  and  a  half 
per  day ;  and  how  their  march  left  a  pathway  in  the  sand 
over  which  came  stragglers  with  unerring  accuracy.  The 
little  fellow  took  his  magnifying  glass  and  showed  him 
how  they  met,  touched  and  passed  on.  Did  they  touch? 
Did  they  speak?  Could  they  behold  such  objects  as 
men?  Or  were  their  senses  inverse  to  man's,  taking  up 
sight,  sound,  smell  and  sensation  at  the  points  where  his 
left  off?  And  if  the  human  being  were  invisible  to  the 
ant,  might  not  we  be  surrounded  by  beings  just  out  of 
reach  of  our  senses?  Such  were  the  ideas  the  little  fellow 
put  forth  with  face  flushed  and  eyes  sparkling,  driving 
the  wise  guest  to  the  corner  of  ignorance  and  the  humilia- 
tion of  defeat. 

Little  Lena  looked  on,  proud  and  happy  that  her  com- 
panion knew  so  much. 

"Chilon  says,"  she  put  in,  when  a  break  occurred,  "that 
he  used  to  study  the  stars  with  his  Grandfather  Pierre  un- 
til he  found  out  that  the  world  was  just  as  big  the  other 
way,  and  as  his  grandfather  had  a  microscope  and  didn't 
have  a  telescope,  he  let  the  stars  go  and  took  up  the  little 
things."  The  man  found  himself  laughing  naturally  for 
the  first  time  in  many  a  year. 

"Just  as  big  the  other  way!  That  is  a  novel  idea,  in- 
deed. But  it  recalls  the  lines: 

"Big  fleas  have  little  fleas 

To  worry  and  to  bite  'em, 
And  little  fleas  have  lesser  fleas 

And  so  ad  infinitem." 

The  boy  was  charmed. 

"That  is  it.  And  just  as  there  is  no  end  to  division,  so 
there  can  be  no  end  to  nature.  Grandfather  said  that 
when  we  reach  what  men  call  the  simple  elements,  we 
simply  reach  something  that  we  have  not  learned  how 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  RAVENSWOOD.  189 

to  divide,  and  that  even  the  atoms  are  theoretically  divisi- 
ble." The  guest  fanned  himself  with  his  hat,  and  drew  a 
long  breath,  at  which  Lena  laughed.  Instantly  the  boy's 
manner  changed  and  he  became  grave  and  silent.  Life 
was  to  him  intensely  real,  and  its  mysteries  perplexing. 
He  had  never  developed  a  sense  of  humor. 

They  strode  on  silently  together;  but  presently  Lena 
slipped  her  hand  in  his  and  he  lost  his  constraint. 

They  were  approaching  the  swamp,  and  presently  what 
seemed  to  have  been  the  din  of  distant  cowbells  grew  so 
loud  and  close  at  hand  that  the  man,  lifting  his  face,  ex- 
claimed with  sudden  recognition: 

"The  bell  locusts!     Is  it  possible!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  with  interest  again.  "This  is 
the  first  year  that  I  have  heard  them.  You  know  they 
come  every  seventeenth  year." 

The  senior  Chilon  had  turned  his  face  away. 

"Seventeen  years!  Is  it  possible!  It  seems  but  yes- 
terday— and  almost  upon  this  spot." 

"You  have  heard  them  before,  sir?" 

"Yes,  my  boy,  I  have  heard  them." 

"There  is  a  legend  in  our  family,"  said  Lena,  "about  the 
letter  'W.'  The  old  French  had  no  'W  you  know,  and 
after  we  came  to  this  country  no  one  ever  married  into 
the  family,  who  had  the  letter  in  his  name;  and  so  it 
doesn't  appear  in  the  family  tree.  The  old  legend  says  in 
rhyme: 

"When  the  'W  enters  the  Marbeau  tree, 
Happy  will  the  next  bride  be." 

"Grandfather  says  that  I  am  to  be  the  next  bride ;  that 
all  trees  down  here  are  Marbeau  trees,  and  every  locust 
in  them  has  a  '  W  on  his  wing." 

Little  Chilon  had  caught  one. 

"See!  there  it  is  on  each  wing,"  he  said.  "People  used 
to  think  that  they  meant  'War5  and  'Want.'  But  the 
housefly  has  the  same  mark." 

The  man  was  not  listening.     Standing  there  seventeen 


190  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

years  before  he  had  promised  his  fair  bride  happiness, 
using  the  argument  of  the  locust's  wings. 

Upon  that  spot!  It  was  full  of  strange  memories. 
Within  sight  of  it  were  the  burned  and  blackened  logs  of 
a  ruined  cabin  protruding  from  masses  of  vines  and 
weeds.  Their  feet  had  paused  in  an  overgrown  path  that 
led  to  the  waters  of  the  creek.  Seeing  his  interest,  Lena 
said  briefly: 

"Aunt  Silvy  used  to  live  there.  She  was  a  very  old  wo- 
man and  a  witch  doctor,  the  negroes  say.  Did  you  ever 
hear  about  her  death,  Mr.  Underbill?  I  don't  believe  it, 
but  some  of  the  people  here  say  that  Satan  carried  her 
off." 

"I  have  never  heard  of  it,"  said  he,  gently.  "Tell  me 
the  story." 

"Well,  you  will  laugh,  I  know;  but  it  isn't  my  story. 
The  swamp  here  was  once  haunted  by  an  old  gray  man 
who  would  ride  up  and  down  the  creek  in  the  night  and 
scream  and  moan ;  and  people  said  that  Aunt  Silvy  knew 
all  about  him,  and  that  he  brought  her  medicines  that 
killed  people  or  made  them  crazy;  or  cured  them,  just 
as  she  wanted  it.  They  say  she  sold  herself  when  she 
was  young  to  Satan,  and  he  was  to  let  her  live  until  she 
was  ninety  years  old  and  then  come  for  her.  Well,  when 
she  was  ninety,  one  night  some  men  who  had  been  out 
possum  hunting  saw  her  house  on  fire  while  she  was  inside 
digging  up  the  hearth  with  the  coals  falling  all  over  her; 
but  she  didn't  mind  the  fire  a  bit.  They  were  all  afraid  to 
go  in  or  near  the  house,  because  she  had  drawn  a  ring 
around  it,  and  anybody  that  crossed  that  line  would  die  in 
a  year.  So  they  stood  and  watched.  All  at  once  the 
gray  man  rushed  up  out  of  the  swamp  and  into  the  fire. 
When  he  came  out  he  had  old  Aunt  Silvy  and  they  dis- 
appeared in  the  swamp  again.  That  was  the  last  ever 
seen  of  her  around  here ;  but  a  man  sitting  upon  the  river 
bank,  fishing,  saw  a  white  boat  come  down  the  river  in  the 
night  with  the  old  gray  man  in  it,  and  stretched  out  be- 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  RAVENSWOOD.  IQ* 

fore  him  was  old  Aunt  Silvy,  dead.  He  just  caught  one 
glimpse  of  them  and  then  the  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of 
burning  sulphur,  and  he  ran  away.  Grandfather  says  it's 
all  bosh !  Old  Aunt  Silvy  caught  on  fire  and  fell  into  the 
creek  and  was  drowned.  He  had  the  creek  dragged  for 
her  body,  but  they  never  found  her.  Anyway,  you  can't 
get  a  negro  to  come  down  here  again  in  the  night  time.1' 

"It  is  not  true,"  said  the  man,  sadly;  "it  is  not  true." 
And  then,  seeing  the  child's  surprise:  "There  are  no 
ghosts  except  the  ghosts  of  ourselves.  As  we  grow  old 
we  change — the  poet  says  we  rise  on  stepping  stones  of 
our  dead  selves.  These  'dead  selves'  are  the  people  we 
used  to  be,  and  they  live  in  our  own  and  the  memory  of 
people  who  knew  us.  That  is  all."  The  boy  looked  up 
quickly. 

"You  do  not  know.  There  are  beings  about  us  who 
are  only  sometimes  visible.  It  all  depends  upon  the 
acuteness  of  your  vision.  Men  used  to  see  better  than 
now,  and  mythology  was  real  then." 

"I  have  never  seen  one,"  said  the  man,  a  troubled  look 
upon  his  face  as  he  noted  the  intense  earnestness  of  the 
little  fellow.  "My  life  is  full  of  ghosts — ghosts  of  memory 
— the  people  that  I  have  known  who  died  and  whom  I 
killed." 

Lena  was  startled. 

"Have  you  ever  killed  anybody?" 

The  fearful  night  upon  which  he  had  gone  forth  from 
the  spot  where  they  stood  floated  back  upon  his  memory. 
Again  he  saw  the  dead  face  of  Richard  looking  up  to  him. 
He  turned  away  quickly  from  the  child's  searching  eyes. 
Controlling  himself,  he  explained  his  meaning. 

"But  I,"  said  Chilon,  softly,  "have  seen  a  person  who 
used  to  live  on  earth  and  is  dead.  And  I  have  heard 
many  more." 

The  elder  Chilon  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"It  is  impossible.  'Tis  a  bad  plan  to  dwell  upon  such 
matters,  my  boy!" 

"It  is  true,  though !     I  have  seen  a  woman  who  was,  in 


192  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

some  other  life,  my  mother.  She  comes  to  me  in  the  night 
when  I  go  into  the  woods  and  puts  her  arm  about  me,  and 
then  tells  me  of  herself.  She  is  always  very  sad,  but  she 
loves  me,  and  I  believe  her.  If  only  she  would  let  me 
see  her  face!" 

The  little  girl  had  gone  to  gather  a  lily  and  the  two 
Chilons  were  alone.  Thrilled  by  the  recital  and  his  young 
companion's  manner  the  elder  waited.  "I  have  never  told 
anybody  about  this,"  continued  the  little  fellow,  "but  I 
cannot  help  but  tell  you.  You  will  believe  me,  I  know. 
She  says  if  any  one  finds  out  about  her  she  can't  come  to 
me  any  more ;  and  I  would  be  very  sorry,  for  I  love  her, 
and  she  must  love  me." 

"Where  do  you  find  her,  my  son?" 

"I  miss  her  sometimes,  but  she  writes  me  little  letters 
then,  and  puts  them  in  a  hollow  tree.  She  calls  me  her 
darling, — see,  here  is  one  of  them."  He  passed  a  note  to 
the  other. 

At  sight  of  the  writing  Chilon  felt  the  scene  waver 
around  him,  but  as  he  read  the  lines,  passionate  bursts  of 
love  and  affection  and  endearments,  the  tears  streamed 
from  his  eyes. 

"Lena!"  he  whispered.  Amazement  succeeded  his 
emotion. 

"Tell  me,"  he  exclaimed  in  awe,  "what  it  is  that  she  says 
to  you !" 

"She  says  that  I  was  stolen  away  from  her  years  ago 
and  kept  from  her.  Sometimes  she  seems  to  think  that  I 
am  grown  and  sometimes  that  I  am  a  baby.  She  calls  me 
her  baby  often;  but  oftener  it  is  Chilon;  and  then  she 
tells  me  of  times  in  that  other  life  when  we  used  to  be  to- 
gether in  these  woods  and  in  the  house,  and  loved  each 
other  very  dearly.'' 

A  fear,  a  great  horror,  suddenly  filled  the  heart  of  the 
man.  With  trembling  hand  he  clasped  the  boy's  shoul- 
der. 

"I  will  keep  your  secret,"  he  said — "Leave  me  the  let- 
ter! Both  are  safe  with  me!" 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY.  193 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
THE  COLONEL'S  STORY. 

The  colonel  began  to  read  his  story  one  morning  in  the 
cool  library,  his  guest  before  him,  his  little  table  by  his 
side: 

"In  the  year  1863,  Francis,  my  older  brother,  yielded 
up  his  life  among  the  guns  of  Doubleday  at  Gettysburg. 
Bold,  handsome,  possessed  of  many  talents  and  a  pas- 
sionate energy  that  carried  all  before  him,  whether  the 
game  was  love  or  war,  he  was  universally  esteemed  in 
the  circles  that  knew  him,  and  at  home  the  idol,  the  beau 
ideal,  of  the  family.  To  him  had  descended  a  fair  share 
of  the  Marbeau  wealth,  but  Ravenswood,  with  most  of  the 
family  relics,  came  to  me.  Richard,  our  half  brother  and 
the  oldest  of  the  family,  cold,  phlegmatic  and  all  for  busi- 
ness, was  already  established  in  his  chosen  profession,  the 
law,  and  had  made  his  home  in  the  city.  He  took  but 
little  interest  in  family  matters.  The  other  brother,  Gas- 
ton,  much  older  than  Francis  and  myself,  had  become  in- 
terested in  some  family  affairs  abroad  and  made  his  home 
in  England.  But  of  him,  more  anon. 

"Francis  and  his  inheritance  soon  parted  company,  but 
when  I  found  that  the  woman  I  loved  preferred  him,  I  cut 
off  from  Ravenswood  a  good  portion,  built  thereon  a 
house  to  his  liking,  saw  him  happily  married  and  settled 
the  whole  upon  his  wife  and  children.  I  have  already 
explained  that  this  lady  was  a  descendant  of  the  Austrian 
colony  that  had  drifted  across  the  Atlantic.  Francis, 
when  passing  the  soldiers'  last  ditch  in  the  thunders  of 
Gettysburg,  saw  bending  over  him  the  familiar  face  of 
Robert  Aubren,  one  of  his  tenants,  a  very  distant  connec- 
tion of  his  wife,  a  strong,  stolid  young  man  from  the  class 
known  as  the  peasantry  in  other  countries,  the  class  that 
furnished  so  much  brawn  and  muscle  and  patriotism — 

13 


194  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

that  helped  to  make  the  private  soldier  of  the  Confederacy 
the  wonder  of  the  age.  To  this  man,  then  scarcely  in  his 
majority,  himself  grievously  wounded  also,  he  consigned 
his  sword  and  a  message  to  me  that  read  like  a  line  from 
some  medieval  romance.  Soon  after  peace  dawned  upon 
America,  the  gentle  little  wife  of  Francis  fell  a  victim  to 
anxiety  and  mental  depression,  through  long  waiting  and 
hope  deferred.  For  there  had  come  rumors  during 
many  months  of  a  Marbeau  in  hospital  and  prison  in  some 
far  away  northern  state.  But  time  brought  no  confirma- 
tion of  these  rumors.  One  day  the  family  burial  ground 
received  the  little  mother,  and  her  devoted  spirit  went 
home  again. 

"Then  it  was  that  I  undertook  to  carry  out  my  broth- 
er's trust.  I  took  to  my  home  the  two  orphans,  Celeste 
and  Chilon,  and  hung  the  unstained  sword  of  the  soldier 
on  the  library  wall.  The  cottage  was  leased  with  its 
holdings  to  Robert  Aubren. 

At  time  of  his  coming  to  Ravenswood  Chilon  was 
about  ten  years  of  age,  and  Celeste  probably  a  year  older. 
A  teacher  was  engaged  for  them,  and  they  began  life 
anew  under  happier  conditions  than  their  war-shadowed 
childhood  had  known.  But  another  change  followed: 
my  wife,  their  invalid  mother  by  adoption,  passed  out  of 
life  also,  leaving  the  household  consisting  of  Celeste, 
Chilon  and  my  Lena,  their  cousin,  the  latter  but  six.  For 
good  reasons,  chiefly  because  my  wife,  who  had  been  a 
Catholic,  had  made  it  a  dying  request,  I  placed  the  latter 
in  the  care  of  convent  sisters,  keeping  with  me  only  the 
nephew  and  the  niece. 

"It  was  about  this  time  that  my  brother,  Gaston,  came 
from  England  to  Ravenswood,  a  strange,  quiet  gentleman 
devoted  to  etching,  to  engraving  and  to  music,  which 
with  him  amounted  almost  to  a  passion.  All  gayety  had 
of  course  long  since  passed  from  the  home,  and  for  the 
convenience  of  Gaston  the  ball  room  upstairs  was  par- 
tially cleared  of  its  rubbish  and  turned  into  a  studio  and 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY.  195 

workshop.  His  life  had  been  full  of  shadow,  and  I  re- 
solved to  try  to  brighten  its  decline. 

"In  this  room  Gaston  gradually  gathered  everything 
demanded  by  his  art,  and  these,  prouder  of  his  talents 
than  I  would  have  admitted,  I  supplemented  with  an  or- 
gan of  great  sweetness  and  power,  the  organ  now  in  the 
parlor. 

"Celeste  soon  developed  the  characteristics  which 
marked  her  after  life.  She  possessed  the  beauty  of  her 
saintly  mother,  and  all  the  moral  qualities  of  the  Austrian 
blended  with  the  spirit  of  the  French  side  of  the  family. 
It  was  not  long  before  her  quiet  dignity  and  quick  decis- 
ion placed  her  practically  at  the  head  of  the  household, 
then  without  a  feminine  director,  and  this  she  accom- 
plished while  still  attending  closely  to  her  lessons  and 
studies.  Possessed  of  none  of  the  talents  which  for  gen- 
erations had  cropped  out  among  the  Marbeaus  she  yet 
possessed  the  genius  for  home-making  which  is  the  rarest 
of  all  feminine  gifts.  Confusion  sank  into  order  where 
she  walked,  and  the  light  touch  of  her  hand  here  and  there 
made  the  dark  and  dusty  rooms  bright  with  sunlight  and 
the  flowers.  Hers  was  simply  a  deep,  reverential  nature, 
born  probably  of  artistic  and  moral  sense  in  preceding 
generations. 

But  if  Celeste  possessed  none  of  the  talents,  Chilon  had 
enough  for  both.  Impatient  of  restraint,  an  enemy  to 
system  and  application,  but  capable  of  intense  effort  and 
prodigious  labor,  where  the  mental  and  psychological 
bents  were  involved,  he  was  at  once,  even  in  childhood, 
artist,  mechanic  and  musician.  His  conception  of  form 
and  color  made  him  the  friend  of  pen,  pencil,  brush  and 
tools  and  his  desire  for  expression  of  that  which  these 
could  not  express  brought  forth  his  voice  and  drew  his 
fingers  to  the  ivories  of  the  organ.  The  coming  of  that 
uncle  so  like  him  in  many  things  seemed  to  have  been 
preordained  of  fate ;  and  the  long  workshop  of  the  artist 
soon  became  the  playhouse  of  the  boy.  As  Gaston  bent 


196  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

above  his  plates,  transferring  to  the  metal  the  forms  of 
nature  and  her  shadowed  light,  Chilon  labored  by  him 
upon  the  same  lines  or  played  the  simpler  melodies  on  the 
organ,  at  times  accompanying  these  with  his  sweet  tenor 
voice.  This  development  brought  him  into  high  favor 
with  his  uncle,  and  gained  for  him  a  careful  instruction 
that  would  have  otherwise  been  practically  impossible. 
So  it  was  that  when  Chilon  was  ready  for  college  he  was 
in  reality  ready  for  the  serious  work  of  an  artist  or  musi- 
cian abroad. 

"But  as  for  Celeste,  she  calmly  declined  to  entertain 
the  thought  of  going  away  to  school,  and  as  calmly  set- 
tled down  to  supplement  the  education  which  had  been 
imparted  to  her  by  special  studies  and  reading.  And  she 
strongly  opposed  the  sending  of  Chilon  elsewhere  than  to 
a  school  of  art.  In  this  she  was  ably  seconded  by  Gaston, 
holding  that  what  he  learned  in  the  modern  college  from 
books  would  not  offset  that  which  a  boy  of  his  tempera- 
ment would  gather  from  companions,  tastes  that  would 
militate  against  the  higher  development  of  his  artistic 
nature.  So,  after  many  months'  discussion,  it  was  de- 
cided that  Chilon  should  remain  at  Ravenswood  until 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  then  go  to  Paris  with  his  Uncle 
Gaston,  who  had  agreed  to  stay  with  him  there  until  his 
future  was  assured. 

"But  destiny,  or  men's  passions,  as  the  case  may  be, 
swept  aside  this  little  house  of  cards  as  a  breath  of  wind 
removes  a  dead  leaf.  To  Celeste,  as  I  realized  afterwards, 
one  man  in  the  world  had,  from  the  day  he  came  back 
from  the  war,  possessed  a  powerful  attraction.  Robert 
Aubren  was  her  ideal.  To  those  who  understood  the 
heart  of  such  a  girl  as  Celeste — I  did  not  understand  it 
then — its  predilection  was  very  natural.  He  possessed 
that  stolidity  of  character,  that  quiet,  dogged  determina- 
tion which  appealed  to  her  most  strongly.  It  is  possible 
that  her  own  character  took  its  shape  somewhat  from  his. 
Combined  with  perfect  honesty  was  an  absolute  fearless- 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY.  197 

ness  of  demeanor  and  a  manliness  that,  while 
unyielding,  was  gracefully  deferential  to  all  about 
him.  And  above  all,  he  had  followed  her  soldier  father 
to  his  fate  'among  the  guns  of  Doubleday,'  and  brought 
back  his  message.  Robert's  was  the  last  friendly  hand 
that  touched  his,  and  with  such  a  girl  the  fact  was  eternal 
consecration.  Upon  his  hearing  had  fallen  the  last  words 
to  home  and  friends.  She  has  told  me  since  that  she 
was  accustomed  to  stand  in  the  library  under  her  father's 
picture  and  think  of  the  scene,  the  loyal,  brave,  intrepid 
boy,  bleeding  from  desperate  wounds,  kneeling  beside  his 
dying  officer  upon  that  fatal  field,  while  through  the 
smoke  that  rolled  above  them  death  was  darting  a  myriad 
of  fiery  tongues.  And  sometimes  she  would  lift  her  tear- 
dimmed  eyes  to  see  the  hero  of  her  dreams  standing  with- 
in the  library,  hat  in  hand. 

"Well,  it  was  the  old,  old  story.  The  business  of  Rob- 
ert Aubren  brought  him  to  the  mansion  often,  and  oftener 
his  inclination  found  business  where  there  was  none.  Love, 
founded  upon  gratitude  and  mutual  sympathy,  bloomed 
as  naturally  as  a  rose  in  the  Ravenswood  garden.  By 
this  time  Celeste  was  a  tall,  well  grown  girl,  with  a  figure 
straight  as  an  Indian's,  and  a  poise  of  head  that  was  su- 
perb. She  moved  ever  with  a  gentle  grace,  queenlike  in 
its  simple  dignity,  and  her  voice  was  very  sweet  to  the 
ears  of  youth." 

"You  have  the  gift  of  description,  Colonel." 
"Ah,  my  dear  sir,  in  describing  the  girl  I  describe  the 
mother.  But  to  continue.  The  difference  in  their  sta- 
tions never  seemed  to  her  an  objection,  and  Robert  was 
Austrian,  too.  She  looked  upon  the  man  alone,  and 
thought  him  more  than  her  equal.  So,  when  one  day 
Robert  Aubren,  meeting  her  in  the  twilight  under  the 
pines  as  she  came  slowly  home  from  a  visit  to  old  Silvy, 
spoke  to  her  simply  of  his  love  and  hopes,  she  looked 
upon  him  with  moist  eyes  and  lips  that  trembled,  and  told 
him  that  she  had  loved  him  ever  since  the  battle  smoke 


198  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

lifted  above  the  dead  at  Gettysburg,  and  would  love  him 
while  life  for  her  remained.  Those  were  her  words  as 
she  told  them  to  me.  A  season  of  delightful  confidence 
succeeded  this  meeting,  full  of  love  and  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture; and  then  Robert  came  to  me  with  his  declaration. 
There  was  a  violent  scene  and  an  emphatic  denial,  fol- 
lowed by  bitter  reproaches ;  but  that  was  all.  The  simple 
dignity  of  the  suitor,  his  fine  reserve,  and  the  remem- 
brance that  he  had  gone  over  the  heights  of  Gettysburg 
for  less  than  he  now  sought,  would  have  checked  any 
personal  violence.  Robert  simply  bowed  his  head  and 
withdrew.  His  conduct  was  that  of  a  polished,  high- 
born gentleman.  But  Celeste  was  a  Marbeau,  and  on 
equal  terms,  and  the  scene  between  us  developed  a  fiery 
passion  that  filled  me  with  consternation.  We  parted;  I 
pledged  never  to  recognize  her  again,  even  if  she  were 
forced  to  beg  her  bread  in  the  streets,  and  she  not  to 
enter  my  doors  again  unless  I  were  dying  and  wished  for 
her  forgiveness. 

"Pride  is  a  very  foolish  thing,  Mr.  Underhill." 

The  reader  adjusted  his  glasses. 

"Well,  she  packed  her  trunks,  rode  away  wdth  Robert, 
and  Rose  Cottage  knew  a  loving  wife  again.  Then  I 
made  another  mistake.  I  have  been  making  them  all  my 
life,"  he  added,  looking  up. 

"Lena  had  been  at  school  in  the  convent  all  these  years, 
but  allowed  to  come  home  in  the  summer.  She  returned 
now  to  become  a  part  of  the  household.  A  shy,  little 
dark-eyed  girl,  she  drifted  naturally  to  Celeste's  side  and 
chose  her  for  all  time  for  her  confidences ;  and  the  moth- 
er-heart of  the  older  girl  took  her  in.  But  if  Celeste  be- 
came her  guardian,  to  a  certain  extent,  Chilon  was  her 
playmate.  The  only  boy  she  had  ever  known ;  handsome, 
winning  and  full  of  talents,  he  exerted  over  the  child  from 
the  first  an  influence  that  was,  even  under  the  circum- 
stances, remarkable.  They  were  companions  during  these 
golden  summers,  the  happiest  days  of  life  for  them.  Am 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY.  199 

I  wearying  you,  Mr.  Underbill?  This  part  of  the  story, 
so  beautiful  to  me,  has  grown  so  only  through  many 
years.  It  may  possess  no  interest  for  you." 

The  guest  spoke  very  gently:  "Read  on,  my  dear  Col- 
onel. Every  man  has  had  his  romance." 

Colonel  Marbeau  looked  to  him  with  a  quick  sympathy, 
and  continued: 

"For,  whether  Chilon  moved  upon  the  lake  or  fished 
in  the  cool  depths  of  the  shady  creeks,  or  gathered  fruit, 
or  played  upon  the  organ,  or  painted  and  drew  pictures, 
the  little  wide-eyed  girl  was  with  him.  The  older  artist 
grew  young  again  when  she  was  at  home,  and  never  tired 
of  her  company.  Those  were  famous  days  for  the  three, 
when  they  could  pack  lunch-baskets  and  go  abroad  for 
their  sketches;  and  many  the  woodland  scenes  that  live 
now  in  black  and  white  and  in  colors,  with  the  child  Lena 
in  the  foreground.  For  in  the  thus  recorded  memories 
of  these  two,  her  admirers,  she  sleeps  with  her  head  upon 
the  cool,  green  moss,  under  giant  oaks;  and  runs  with 
hand  outstretched  for  golden  butterflies;  and  by  the  side 
of  cool,  dark  waters  plaits  into  wreaths  for  her  hat  the 
long-stemmed  lilies;  and  walks  demure  in  the  colonnade 
of  pines;  and  sits  with  her  bonnet  on  her  knee  and  face 
upturned  unto  the  crimson  sunset  where  homing  swal- 
lows circle  in  the  air. 

"If  you  will  look  into  that  portfolio  over  there,  Mr.  Un- 
derhill,  some  day  when  you  have  an  hour,  I  think  you  will 
be  charmed.  It  contains  the  Lily  of  Ravenswood,  painted 
day  by  day,  as  she  bloomed  under  her  southern  sky." 

He  pointed  with  his  glasses  to  a  mahogany  stand,  not 
seeing  with  his  unassisted  eyes  the  white  face  turned  reso- 
lutely toward  his  own,  and  hands  clenched  upon  the  chair- 
arm.  He  lifted  a  page,  and  continued: 

"They  were  faithful  lovers,  then,  these  two,  the  old 
man  and  the  boy.  And  if  a  judge  had  been  there  to  pro- 
nounce a  verdict,  he  would  have  said  the  elder  loves  her 
as  his  life ;  the  younger,  in  a  careless,  happy,  unrealizing, 


200  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

unreasoning  way; — and  she!  Why,  she  loves  him,  the 
elder,  very  tenderly  and  truly;  but  he,  the  younger,  is  her 
life  itself." 

The  old  man's  manner  was  pathetic  and  deprecating, 
and  a  sad  smile  flitted  across  his  face. 

"Pardon  my  diffusion,  Mr.  Underhill.  We  old  folks 
of  the  south  must  live  in  the  past;  the  present  has  little 
for  us;  the  future — nothing." 

He  waited  a  moment,  and  began  again : 

"And  then,  broken-hearted,  she  would  go  away  to  The 
Sisters  and  take  up  the  tiresome,  cheerless  life,  so  unlike 
that  of  Ravenswood. 

"I  speak  of  her  now  before  her  final  return, — while  she 
was  writing  to  Chilon  long,  sweet  letters,  full  of  girlish 
love.  And  he  would  tell  of  the  sunny  days  at  home  again, 
of  trout  that  struck  his  hook  on  the  lake  and  quail  that 
fell  before  his  gun ;  of  the  songs  he  had  written  and  pic- 
tures painted — songs  and  pictures  that  held  her  memory. 
I  have  them,  gathered  and  preserved — blue  ribbons,  with- 
ered flowers,  and  all.  Upon  the  margin  of  his  pages,  as 
he  wrote,  he  would  put  little  sketches  of  his  uncles,  and 
himself,  that  made  home  real  for  her. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Underhill,  I  have  lived  over  all  this  so 
often,  have  had  it  from  Lena  so  vividly,  it  has  become 
like  some  beautiful  dream  of  my  own  youth;  but,  per- 
haps you  have  guessed  it  already;  so,  as  a  boy,  did  I 
love  the  mother  of  Celeste;  so  did  I  write  her  passionate 
letters  from  the  heart  of  Ravenswood." 

"You  loved  him,  too,  then; — Chilon?" 

The  man  sitting  in  the  shadow  spoke  but  little  above  a 
whisper: 

"Loved  him !"  Colonel  Marbeau  lifted  a  hand  as  though 
to  emphasize  some  thought;  but  he  changed  his  mind. 
"I  did  not  know  how  much,  then;  I  was  saving  the  coun- 
try and  immersed  in  politics;  fighting  a  phantom  outside 
and  harboring  ruin  at  home. 

"Then  came  the  day  when  she  returned  home  to  stay. 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY.  2OI 

Imagine  how  slowly  for  the  dear  girl  the  train  dragged 
its  weary  way  across  the  hills  and  plains,  how  long  the 
nights  in  the  stuffy  sleeper,  how  tiresome  the  everyday 
people  around  her,  idling  over  papers  and  their  eternal 
lunches.  She  pitied  them,  she  told  me  once,  their  lives 
were  tame  and  colorless ;  they  held  no  Ravenswood, — no 
Chilon! 

"He  went  to  meet  her  in  the  city, — Chilon  did,  happy 
over  her  home-coming,  happier  over  her  happiness.  Too 
fast,  then,  the  steady  mare ;  oh,  how  much  too  fast !  And 
so  they  came  to  the  great  gate  at  home  and  entered  the 
avenue;  and  so  Chilon  placed  his  arm  about  her,  and 
kissing  her  upon  the  lips,  said:  'Welcome  home  to  Rav- 
enswood!' Imagine  the  scene,  Mr.  Underhill, — and  the 
girl  from  convent  life!  Startled,  she  looked  into  his 
steady  brown  eyes  bent  upon  her,  and  read  the  secret 
beyond.  Chilon  loved  her!  Oh,  what  a  place  then  was 
Ravenswood!  And  I,  meeting  her  at  the  door,  a  little 
grayer,  a  little  sadder,  a  little  colder,  perhaps — for  pride, 
not  sympathy,  was  the  life-note  then, — took  her  in  my 
arms  and  kissed  her,  too.  My  God!"  he  exclaimed,  pas- 
sionately snatching  his  glasses  from  his  eyes,  "Why,  why 
did  not  some  one  warn  me? — why  was  I  permitted  to  see 
all  only  through  the  perspective  of  sad,  of  bitter  years 
and  the  mists  of  tears?" 

Chilon  arose  quickly  and  walked  away,  too  much  agi- 
tated for  words.  Remembering,  he  came  back,  and  stood 
near  the  speaker,  who,  half-ashamed  of  his  outburst,  was, 
apparently,  looking  for  the  next  line  of  his  narrative. 

"My  life  has  been  a  lonely  one,  Colonel!  Every  heart 
has  its  echoes;  something  in  your  story  has  awakened 
mine."  The  Colonel  reached  forth  his  hand,  and  pressed 
his  companion's. 


202  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

When  Colonel  Marbeau  looked  up,  he  continued  the 
narrative  without  reading:  "I  come  now,  Mr.  Underhill, 
to  a  part  of  the  story  that  is  full  of  misery  for  me,  for 
while  I  did  my  duty,  as  I  saw  it,  I  suffered  myself  to  be 
deceived  by  a  base  nature,  and  I  broke  the  hearts  of  those 
dearest  to  me. 

"The  one  flaw  in  the  happiness  of  our  young  people 
in  those  summer  days  was  Richard  Marbeau.  Already  a 
man  grown  and  established,  not  questioning  the  sound- 
ness of  the  family  arrangement  touching  the  future  of 
Lena,  he  invaded  Ravenswood  at  all  times.  The  char- 
acter of  this  man,  this  beast, — but  no;  he  was  born 
my  kinsman.  I  expose  his  character  because  its  exposure 
defends  others  who  were  blameless.  He  had  begun  early 
to  press  his  suit ;  for  Ravenswood  was  a  fortune  in  itself. 
I  know  his  object  now.  Little  presents  found  their  way 
to  the  convent,  and  he  himself  lost  no  opportunity  to  visit 
it  when  going  north.  During  vacations  he  frequently 
took  time  to  come  out  for  a  day,  and  that  day,  'by  the 
young  people  here,  was  counted  lost.'' 

The  Colonel  picked  up  his  sheets,  and  resumed: 

"Lena  had  not,  at  that  time,  reached  the  point  of  dis- 
puting the  validity  of  the  family  arrangement  in  any  re- 
spect, and  so  they  were  obliged  to  take  the  unwelcome 
guest  into  their  plans,  whatever  they  might  be,  and  omit 
Uncle  Gaston.  For  the  latter  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  city  Marbeau.  His  self-importance,  his  loud 
dress  and  assumption,  and  his  narrowness,  palled  upon 
Gaston's  artistic  nature.  After  one  or  two  efforts  to  be 
polite,  he  simply  abandoned  the  field  and  betook  himself 
to  work  that  permitted  no  interruption.  Left  to  the  two 
cousins,  Lena,  on  such  occasions,  had  a  miserable  day 


THE  COLONEL'S   STORY  CONTINUED.       203 

of  it,  for  on  one  side  was  Richard,  with  his  clumsy  sel- 
fishness and  unsympathetic  voice,  and  on  the  other,  the 
laughing  Chilon,  ready  to  tease  her  over  the  absurdity 
of  the  whole  proceedings.  For  Chilon,  young  as  he  was, 
knew  that  oil  and  water  would  blend  before  there  would 
be  any  love  between  Richard  and  Lena;  and  marriage 
without  love  was  something  that  never  entered  his  mind 
in  connection  with  Lena  Marbeau.  He  did  not  value  cor- 
rectly the  reaction  of  a  loving  and  disappointed  nature. 
He  did  not  know  life ! 

"And  well  might  Chilon  smile  over  the  absurdity  of 
the  situation  at  that  time;  for  the  confidence  between 
himself  and  the  girl  had  become  as  near  perfect  as  may 
be.  He  had  entered  his  nineteenth  year  and  she  her  sev- 
enteenth, and  the  passionate  love  of  the  girl  for  the  hand- 
some boy  was  almost  idolatry.  He  returned  this  devo- 
tion with  love  less  only  to  the  extent  that  his  art  and 
music  gave  him  other  vents  for  emotion;  for  in  these  she 
found  rivals,  while  with  her,  life  held  but  one  thing  worth 
loving; — Chilon.  Their  last  year  at  Ravenswood  was  an 
idyl,  too  perfect  to  endure.  Long  walks  in  the  woodlands, 
boat  rides  for  lilies,  and  sketching  tours  filled  up  many 
a  day;  and  at  night  what  was  happier  fate  for  her  than 
to  lie  upon  the  leather  lounge  in  the  library  and  have 
Chilon  read  in  musical  tones  of  others  who  loved  as  they 
in  olden  days  of  romance;  or  to  sit  in  the  moonlight  of 
the  porch  while  he  sang,  an  accomplishment  in  which 
she  could  furnish  a  sweet  soprano  to  his  tenor;  or  to  wait 
in  the  dim,  old  ballroom  upstairs,  curled  up  on  a  dilapidat- 
ed chair,  while  he  awoke  the  grand,  old  melodies  of  the 
masters  with  the  touch  and  inspiration  of  the  artist-mu- 
sician. They  were  golden  days  and  nights,  holy  in  their 
unbroken  happiness. 

"I  saw  none  of  this,  then;  or  saw  it  unsympathetically. 

"Absorbed  in  the  political  campaign  and  a  series  of 
articles  that  I  had  promised  our  local  paper  upon  the  ag- 
gressiveness of  corporations,  I  saw  only  a  boy  and  girl 


204  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

in  the  house  amusing  themselves  as  boys  and  girls  will; 
and  when  one  day  my  attention  was  rudely  called  to  the 
situation  by  Richard,  whose  cunning  mind  scented  alarm, 
1  hooted  at  the  thought  of  love  between  them.  But  Rich- 
ard was  persistent;  and  so  one  day  I  got  Lena  into  the 
library  and  spoke  seriously  of  her  approaching  life. 

'  'You  are  now  in  your  seventeenth  year,  my  child,'  I 
said,  'and  should  begin  to  contemplate  the  time  when  you 
will  become  a  wife.  Richard  is  eager  to  make  the  interval 
as  short  as  possible,  and  probably  when  you  are  eighteen, 
I  shall  be  forced  to  give  you  up.  Women  in  our  family, 
you  know,  are  married  early  in  life,  and  while,  if  the  cir- 
cumstances permitted  it,  I  would  be  glad  to  have  you  a 
year  or  two  in  society  first,  we  shall  have  to  trust  to  you 
to  find  your  gayety  afterwards  as  a  young  wife.  Remem- 
ber, now,  that  as  the  new  dignity  approaches  you  should 
begin  to  lay  aside  something  of  your  girlish  life,  and  be- 
come a  woman.  Your  cousin  Chilon  is  a  bright,  happy- 
hearted  fellow,  but  he  is  only  your  cousin  at  last;  and, 
even  to  him,  under  the  circumstances,  you  must  begin  to 
show  a  certain  amount  of  reserve.  Richard  is  coming  to- 
morrow to  talk  with  you,  and  I  wish  very  much  for  you 
two  to  arrive  at  a  clear  understanding.'  The  poor  child's 
face  rises  before  me  as  I  read,  Mr.  Underbill.  Abashed, 
frightened,  with  a  pain  at  her  heart,  Lena  crept  back  into 
the  workroom  and  told  Chilon  all  about  it.  The  long- 
dreaded  issue  was  at  hand.  What  was  to  be  done?  Chilon 
was  too  furious  for  good  judgment;  he  wished  to  go  at 
once  to  the  library,  God  bless  him,  and  protest  against 
the  inhumanity  of  this  contract;  or  he  would  wait  until 
to-morrow  and  insult  the  expectant  bridegroom  and  give 
him  choice  of  pistols  out  under  the  pines.  No ;  Chilon's 
method  would  only  hasten  the  catastrophe,  she  argued. 
There  was  good  old  Uncle  Gaston ;  she  would  go  to  him ; 
and  go  she  did,  finding  herself  in  five  minutes  sobbing  in 
his  loving  arms.  There,  instead  of  with  me,  she  poured 
out  her  soul;  not  only  the  hatred  she  bore  to  the  officious 


THE  COLONEL'S    STORY  CONTINUED.       205 

Richard,  but  the  tender  love  that  it  held  for  dear,  sweet 
Chilon.  Old  Gaston  blinked  madly  over  this  recital,  I 
was  told,  and  rested  his  forehead  upon  her  tresses  so  long 
that  she  ceased  to  weep  and  wondered.  When  he  spoke, 
his  playful  manner  was  gone;  she  hardly  recognized  his 
calm,  earnest  tones;  he  said  to  her:  'My  child,  do  not 
cry ;  you  will  not  marry  Richard  Marbeau  until  you  wish 
it.  Is  that  sufficient?'  She  took  his  face  in  her  hands, 
ecstatically  happy.  'Yes,  indeed,'  she  cried.  'Because,' 
said  he,  with  something  like  his  old  playfulness  come 
back,  'if  it  isn't,  I  promise  also  that  you  shall  marry  Chilon 
whenever  you  wish.'  Think  of  that.  And  yet  I  love  Gas- 
ton  the  better  for  it.  'But,'  said  he,  'the  chances  are  you 
may  have  to  marry  him  before  you  wish,  to  escape  the 
other!'  She  went  away,  blissfully  happy,  my  poor,  little 
girl,  happy  to  escape  from  me;  and,  putting  aside  his 
tools,  Gaston  descended  to  the  library.  What  happened 
there,  nobody  will  ever  know;  but  Gaston  went  back 
with  a  set  look  upon  his  face  so  different  from  its  usual 
placidness,  that  the  two  sweethearts,  waiting  in  the  turn 
of  the  stairs,  feared  the  worst  had  come.  He  would  not 
be  questioned,  but  the  next  day  he  took  Chilon  into  the 
woods. 

"  'I  will  arrange  everything,'  said  the  true-hearted  old 
fellow.  'Prepare  Lena!'  Chilon  went  home,  and  in  the 
quiet  of  her  own  room,  where  they  crept  for  uninterrupt- 
ed confidences,  told  her  of  their  plans.  There  was  no 
mother  to  advise,  and  her  little  heart  was  sorely  tried  by 
fear  for  the  future.  She  knelt  before  her  youthful  lover, 
and  laid  her  head  in  his  lap,  her  eyes  overflowing  with  al- 
most hysterical  tears.  'I  have  no  one  but  you,  Chilon; 
tell  me  what  to  do?'  And  Chilon,  dear  boy,  as  honest 
and  true  as  she,  with  unhesitating  confidence  of  youth, 
told  her,  painting  life  as  he  dreamed  it.  One  day,  the 
three  only  walked  a  little  further,  and  a  country  justice 
made  Chilon  and  Lena  man  and  wife,  and  gave  a  pledge 
to  secrecy,  that  to  his  honor  be  it  said,  he  never  broke. 


206  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Upon  the  same  day  Gaston  received  a  letter  that  dis- 
turbed and  distressed  him  beyond  measure.  With  a  few 
hasty  preparations  he  disappeared,  enjoining  upon  Chilon 
that  he  should  wait  until  his  return,  which  would  not  be 
more  than  two  weeks  later,  and  they  would  then  go  to- 
gether and  acquaint  me  with  the  fact  that  Lena  positively 
refused  longer  to  consider  Richard  Marbeau  as  a  prospec- 
tive husband,  and  abide  the  consequences.  If  then  there 
seemed  to  be  a  chance  to  substitute  Chilon,  a  year  or  two 
abroad  would  end  the  complication.  If  there  was  no 
chance,  then  his  stay  might  be  longer;  but  Lena,  in  either 
case,  was  safe. 

"Two  weeks  passed,  and  many  another;  and  still  no 
news  of  Gaston.  Then  a  letter  came  from  England,  urg- 
ing Chilon  to  face  the  issue  alone,  and  communicate  the 
result  by  mail ;  circumstances  rendered  his,  Gaston's,  re- 
turn a  matter  of  uncertainty.  After  many  weeks  of  hap- 
piness, almost  delirious,  the  time  came  when  Chilon  was 
forced  to  plead  his  cause.  And  well  did  he  plead  it,  but 
he  did  not  name  the  marriage.  We  quarreled;  I  was 
high-tempered  in  those  days,  Mr.  Underbill — we  quar- 
reled and  I  struck  him — with  my  whip ;  struck  him,  and 
the  boy  ran  me  through  with  his  father's  sword." 

"Oh — but — it  was  in  a  blind  rage,  a  burst  of  temper — 
he  did  not — he  could  not — you  must  know,  sir,  that  it  was 
unintentional." 

The  guest  had  arisen  in  his  excitement.  A  sudden  fury 
seemed  to  animate  the  old  man. 

"Unintentional!  Sir,  that  wound  is  one  of  many,  but 
I  value  it  above  all  the  rest.  They  record  only  the  de- 
fense of  home  and  property,  while  that  one  represents 
the  defense  of  family  honor.  If  it  had  been  accident,  I 
would  have  disowned  him.  Understand,  sir,  you  slander 
him !  God  bless  the  boy,  he  did  it  a-purpose !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  other,  gently,  "I  cer- 
tainly did  not  intend  to  offend " 

"Of  course  not,  of  course  not!    Pardon  my  excitement, 


THE  COLONEL'S   STORY  CONTINUED.       20; 

Mr.  Underbill."   He  stretched  forth  his  hand,  which  Chil- 
on  took  and  pressed  gently. 

"Well,  the  boy  plunged  out  of  the  house,  and  hung 
around  until  he  found  I  wasn't  going  to  die,  and  then 
started,  we  think,  to  join  Gaston  in  England;  but  he 
never  reached  there.  Lena  endured  life  at  Ravenswood 
for  two  weeks,  forced  almost  daily  to  receive  Richard. 
And  I — I  was  obstinate,  too,  in  those  days,  Mr.  Under- 
bill,— I,  determined  to  keep  my  promise  to  Richard's 
father,  went  to  work  to  conclude  the  contract.  The  poor 
child,  unable  to  endure  the  torment  any  longer,  left  the 
house  and  quietly  took  refuge  with  her  cousin,  Celeste, 
whose  arms  were  outstretched  gladly  when  she  heard  her 
story.  Loyal  Celeste !  She,  too,  faced  me — oh,  they  were 
not  afraid  of  me — she  drew  down  upon  her  devoted  head 
another  storm.  Both  of  us  had  broken  our  promises!  I 
did  recognize  her,  and  she  came  back  without  the  asking. 
We  parted  again ;  I  full  of  rage,  and  she  quietly  scornful, 
the  friend  of  her  brother's  wife.  But  I  anticipate. 


208  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XL. 
THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

"Richard  Marbeau  was  a  Marbeau  in  one  thing,  at 
least;  he  never  knew  when  he  was  defeated.  If  he  was 
such  in  any  other  respect,  he  dated  back  into  other  gen- 
erations, for  there  had  been  evil  Marbeaus,  or  this  story 
would  not  have  been  written.  Certain  it  is  that  his  hered- 
ity was  not  of  recent  lives  for,  as  this  age  knew  them, 
while  sometimes  wicked  as  the  world  goes,  they  esteemed 
honor  highly  and  fought  in  the  open.  Richard  did  not 
lack  courage,  but  ambition  and  avarice  were  with  him 
passions  strong  enough  to  bend  any  means  to  suit  his 
needs.  It  is  impossible  that  he  could  have  loved  Lena 
Marbeau  at  the  time  of  her  marriage.  There  was  no 
common  meeting-point  for  their  natures,  no  association, 
no  sympathy.  That  which  constituted  the  mainspring  of 
her  action  was  something  strange  to  him;  and  his  char- 
acter was  one  to  be  abhorred  the  more  it  developed  within 
her  knowledge.  But  Lena  meant  Ravenswood,  and  he 
loved  Ravenswood  with  a  force  and  a  lust  beyond  expres- 
sion. When,  responding  to  a  message  from  me,  he  was 
informed  of  the  demand  made  by  Chilon,  he  almost 
laughed  aloud  in  his  triumph;  the  strangeness  of  it  all, 
even  then,  affected  me. 

"  'I  need  not  remind  you,  Uncle,'  he  said,  with  affected 
humility,  'that  I  feared  this  complication  long  ago.  The 
point  now  is  to  guard  against  future  danger,  and  I  beg  to 
urge  an  early  marriage.  That  once  accomplished,  you 
may  leave  the  rest  to  me.' 

"  'My  views  entirely,'  I  said  to  him.  'You  speak  of  an 
early  marriage;  what  do  you  say  to  thirty  days?' 

"  To-day  would  be  better,  Uncle,  but  I  think  we  must 
defer  somewhat  to  Lena?'  In  this  manner  we  proceeded 
to  dispose  of  the  poor  girl,  who  was  anxiously  waiting 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONTINUED.        209 

upstairs  for  the  results  of  this  conference.  But  when  ac- 
quainted with  the  decision  in  her  affairs,  she,  for  the  first 
time,  showed  open  rebellion.  She  would  not  even  con- 
sider it,  she  declared.  Argument,  promises  of  large  wealth, 
pleadings  for  family  pride,  persuasions,  threats,  and  even 
my  towering  passion,  could  not  daunt  or  move  her. 
The  family  spirit  had  been  roused,  and  both  of  us  knew 
then  that  difficulties  were  before  us.  Days  of  harassment 
followed,  of  affectionate  pleadings;  again,  of  argument 
upon  argument;  and  days  of  coldness  and  almost  cruel 
reproach.  To  no  end.  The  girl  stood  out  bravely.  She 
could  do  no  less,  of  course. 

"One  day,  after  a  more  than  usual  strain  upon  her 
nerves,  she  came  to  the  library  pale  and  agitated. 

"  'Father,'  she  said,  'it  is  a  hard  thing  to  say  to  you, 
but  home  has  now  become  purgatory  to  me.  I  had  hoped 
to  be  here  with  you  always;  to  take  the  place  of  mother, 
and  be  your  comfort  when  old  age  descended  upon  you, 
but  that  is  now  impossible.  You  urge  me  to  do  that 
to  which  death  a  hundred  times  over  is  preferable.  I  will 
never  consent,  not  while  Chilon  lives;  and  I  think  if  he 
were  dead,  I  would  lie  down  and  die,  too,  rather  than  be- 
come the  wife  of  Richard.  I  cannot  stay  here  with  that 
decision;  you  would  not  permit  it;  and  so  while  I  am 
well  enough  and  strong  enough  to  keep  my  faith,  I  am 
going  to  leave  you.  Let  us  not  part  in  anger, 
father.  Kiss  me  good-bye.'  Dumfounded  at  a 
decision  that  I  had  not  thought  her  capable  of  form- 
ing, I  sat  gazing  straight  ahead,  too  much  affected  to 
trust  my  voice.  'Good-bye,  then,  father!'  she  said.  She 
bent  over  me,  and  touched  my  forehead  with  her  lips,  and 
was  gone."  Colonel  Marbeau's  voice  had  faltered.  His 
hearer  sat  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  Presently  he  re- 
sumed: "I  could  not  for  some  time  believe  it.  She  was 
only  frightening  me;  she  would  go  a  little  way,  and  come 
back,  crying,  to  be  forgiven.  She  did  not  come  back,  and 
night  descended.  When,  thoroughly  aroused,  I  was  mak- 

14 


210  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

ing  preparations  to  follow  her,  a  message  came  from 
thoughtful  Robert  Aubren,  saying  that  Lena  was  with 
Celeste,  and  Rose  Cottage  would  be  her  home  until  she 
chose  to  leave  it.  The  relief  gave  me  a  chance  to  rage, 
and  rage  I  did,  finding  a  sympathetic  auditor  in  Richard. 
But  when  I  swore  that  I  would  disinherit  her,  oh,  then 
his  sympathies  were  touched.  'Give  her  more  time,'  he 
pleaded ;  'she  will  come  around  some  day.'  He  believed 
it  himself. 

"From  that  day,  however,  Richard  probably  dated  his 
admiration  for  Lena  Marbeau  as  a  woman.  He  could 
never  love  her,  in  the  sense  that  love  is  an  intellectual 
phenomenon ;  he  was  incapable  of  that  form  of  love,  un- 
der any  circumstances;  but  he  could  love  as  the  mere 
man  loves;  and  possessing  that  idiosyncrasy  of  mind 
which  despises  the  easily-won  honor,  he  was  ready  now 
to  devote  himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  the  conquest  of  the 
defiant  woman.  He  felt  that  his  personality  had  not  been 
given  a  fair  chance;  the  unhappy  contract  ought  never 
to  have  been  broached  to  the  girl.  She  would  have  loved 
him  but  for  that;  she  must  love  him  in  spite  of  it.  As 
for  Chilon,  he  was  a  mad  boy,  and  soon  to  be  forgotten. 
In  which  conclusion  Richard  justified  a  current  saying, 
that  everybody  knew  the  Marbeaus  except  the  Mar- 
beaus. 

"I  can  imagine  his  action  as  he  rode  slowly  home- 
ward that  night.  The  lawyer's  mind  began  to  cast  about 
for  the  next  move  in  the  game  already  half  lost.  What 
should  first  be  done?  Time  and  absence  are  fearful  con- 
spirators against  young  love,  he  reasoned,  smiling;  the 
first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  isolate  Lena.  He  decided  then 
to  ask  me  to  intercept  and  withhold  from  her  any  letters 
that  might  come  from  Chilon,  and  I  told  him  that  he 
might  count  with  certainty  upon  that  being  done;  but 
he  desired  also  to  get  at  the  contents  of  those  letters,  to 
arm  himself  with  the  information  of  Chilon's  movements, 
and  this,  he  soon  learned,  could  not  be  expected  through 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONTINUED.        211 

me;  for  a  true  Marbeau,  sir,  is  too  high-born  to  break  the 
seal  of  a  letter  addressed  in  confidence  to  another. 

"There  was  another  way,  and  it  came  to  him  as  an  in- 
spiration. His  political  power  was  already  such  as  to 
entitle  him  to  patronage,  and  he  had  only  to  secure  the 
service  of  a  tool  in  office  to  have  withdrawn  from  the 
Ravenswood  mail  all  letters  addressed  to  Lena.  They 
came  fast  enough,  at  first;  passionate  outbursts  of  love, 
plans  for  the  future,  roseate  dreams !  But  the  poor  young 
wife,  bearing  her  burdens,  received  none  of  them."  The 
face  of  the  guest  was  lifted  a  moment,  and  his  lips  moved 
silently.  The  old  gentleman  did  not  perceive  the  act, 
for  his  own  eyes  were  dim. 

"Oh,  those  days  of  waiting  and  watching  for  Chilon! 
But  if  long  for  me,  how  dreary  for  Lena!  Not  a  sun  arose 
but  brought  hopes  of  letters  or  of  his  coming;  not  a  sun- 
set but  left  her  disappointed.  Grief-stricken,  afflicted  with 
a  settled  melancholy,  she  took  up  a  woman's  burden. 
Richard  came  again  and  again,  until  finally  she  totally 
refused  to  see  him.  She  sent  the  message  by  a  negro 
woman,  and  his  conduct  that  day  indicated  the  man;  he 
lashed  this  woman  with  his  rawhide  whip;  an  innocent, 
defenseless,  old  woman,  obeying  orders.  And  still  he 
persisted,  until  one  day  a  letter  from  Chilon  betrayed  the 
marriage.  He  was  too  late.  He  went  at  once  to  the  or- 
dinary's office;  there  was  the  record  of  the  license. 

"  'Who  authorized  the  issuance  of  this  license,'  he 
asked,  scarcely  able  to  suppress  his  rage. 

"  'Why,  it  was  issued  to  your  uncle,  old  Mr.  Gaston 
Marbeau,  if  I  remember  correctly/  said  the  clerk,  in  sur- 
prise. 'Nothing  irregular,  I  trust?' 

"  'Nothing,'  said  the  unhappy  man,  promptly.  'Please 
be  kind  enough  to  forget  my  question.  Do  you  under- 
stand?' The  office  was  elective;  the  officer  understood. 
The  ordinary  told  me  this  recently. 

"Before  Richard's  vision,  as  he  walked  back  to  his 
rooms,  was  doubtless  a  dissolving  view.  It  was  Ravens- 


212  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

wood,  carrying  with  it  Congress  and  all  political  prefer- 
ment. For  Richard,  the  heir,  and  expectant  bridegroom, 
was  a  man  for  royal  treatment,  and  Richard  the  deserted, 
was  a  man  for  street-corner  jests  and  squibs  in  opposi- 
tion journals.  All  that  had  saved  him  so  far  was  the 
public's  total  ignorance  of  the  given  name  of  his  expec- 
tant bride,  and  the  fact  that  a  hundred  licenses  had  been 
issued  to  Marbeaus  of  the  African  kind  since  the  war. 
For  the  family  negroes  chose  their  master's  name.  As  it 
stood,  he  was  the  only  possessor  of  all  the  facts  outside 
the  actual  participants  in  the  tragedy,  for  tragedy  it 
seemed  to  him. 

"But  when  his  disturbed  mind  settled  back  into  the  old 
grooves  he  began  to  ask  himself  if  all  were  indeed  lost! 
There  had  been  a  marriage,  but  it  was  a  foolish,  childish 
affair,  and  could  be  set  aside  by  the  girl's  natural  guar- 
dian. Could  it  be  set  aside  without  her  consent?  Doubt- 
ful. Then  her  consent  must  be  had.  Fortunately  for 
him,  husband  and  wife  were  isolated  and  separated.  He 
held  the  commanding  position.  He  noticed  with  grim 
satisfaction  that  Chilon  reproached  her  for  failure  to 
write,  and  soon  these  reproaches  deepened  into  what  was 
almost  rage." 

"Oh,  the  infamy  of  it!"  The  guest  could  not  restrain 
it. 

"No  other  word  describes  it,"  said  the  Colonel,  sadly. 
And  then,  continuing  to  read:  "Was  it  possible  that 
Chilon  had  found  other  means  to  communicate  with  her? 
Richard,  although  repulsed,  and  finally  denied  admission 
to  Rose  Cottage,  to  settle  this  point,  determined  to  try 
once  more  for  an  interview.  He  wrote  a  note  to  the  un- 
happy girl  that  he  had  a  communication  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  make  concerning  Chilon,  and  sent  it  to  her. 
She  invited  him  to  call,  and  he  did  so,  his  manner  grave, 
deferential  and  sympathetic.  He  was  a  good  actor. 

'  'I  come  to  you  to-day,  Lena,'  he  said,  'as  your  cousin 
only ;  all  of  the  old  hopes  I  entertained  are  dead.    I  know 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONTINUED.       213 

your  secret.'  She  waited  breathlessly, — the  poor  little 
woman.  'I  have  accidentally  discovered  that  you  married 
Chilon.  No  one  else  knows  it,  and  I  pledge  you  my  word 
of  honor  that  I  will  not  reveal  it  until  you  consent.'  His 
manner,  I  am  told,  his  air  and  sincerity  seemed  perfect, 
and  therein,  Mr.  Underhill,  lies  a  mystery;  how  may  we 
boast  of  the  talents  and  genius  of  our  kin  as  hereditary 
and  escape  the  artistic  rascality  which  now  and  then  crops 
out?  Even  Lena  was  impressed  and  deceived.  'What  I 
desire  of  you  now,'  he  said,  'is  Chilon's  address.  Give  me 
that  and  I  may  help  you.'  What  was  her  reply?  'I  thank 
you,  Richard;  I  think  that  I  must  have  misjudged  you. 
You  are  kind,  very  kind,  to  me!'  She  could  not  control 
her  tears,  he  had  touched  her  so  deeply.  She  did  not 
know  the  address  and  said  so.  He  was  amazed,  of  course. 
But  he  prepared  the  way  for  his  next  move.  'I  am  afraid,' 
he  murmured,  'there  is  something  wrong.'  He  reflected 
a  moment.  'Lena,'  he  said,  'you  have  been  distrustful  of 
me  without  cause.  If  you  will  look  back  you  will  perceive 
that  the  arrangement  made  for  us  was  no  more  my  doing 
than  yours.  I  only  sought  to  carry  out  my  share  honor- 
ably and  sincerely.  When  I  found  opposition,  I  met  it 
like  a  man,  not  knowing  it  was  so  serious.  From  to-day 
I  am  your  cousin  and  defender;  if  I  can  win  back  your 
husband  and  smooth  away  your  difficulties  over  yonder 
at  Ravenswood,  I  will  do  it.  Will  you  trust  me?' 

"Oh,  Mr.  Underhill,  when  you  judge  this  poor  girl, 
think  of  her  defenselessness.  To  have  discredited  him 
would  have  been  to  accuse  him  of  a  baseness  impossible 
to  any  human  being  with  a  heart  in  him,  it  seemed  to  her. 
Covering  her  face,  down  which  the  tears  were  now  stream- 
ing, she  gave  him  her  free  hand.  'I  do  trust  you,  cousin,' 
she  said,  'and  I  am  sorry  to  have  caused  you  pain  and 
disappointment.  But  I  was  not  to  blame  if  I  loved  Chil- 
on; I  could  not  help  it.  I  will  always  love  him.'  He 
pressed  her  hand.  It  was  well  for  his  plan  that  his  face 


214  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

did  not  betray  the  triumph  which  must  have  filled  him 
when  she  finished. 

"He  then  unfolded  his  scheme;  he  would  employ  de- 
tectives and  trace  out  the  fugitive,  re-establish  her  at 
home  and  get  his  uncle's  blessing.  He  made  a  beautiful 
picture  of  the  end  and  left  her  full  of  hope.  His  one  mis- 
take was  in  urging  her  to  return,  meanwhile,  to  Ravens- 
wood.  She  met  this  with  a  passionate  refusal. 


THE  STORY  CONCLUDED.  215 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
THE  STORY  CONCLUDED 

"The  plot  into  which  Richard  had  now  entered  was  to 
him  simply  a  game,  the  stake,  Ravenswood  and  a  senti- 
mental wife,  who  would,  in  society,  soon  forget  her  little 
romance.  In  this  game  Chilon  was  his  opponent;  a  man 
who  had  wronged  him  deeply.  'All  is  fair  in  love  and 
war,'  he  argued  with  me  once,  talking  over  his  successes, 
'and  this  being  both  love  and  war,  I  am  doubly  justified.' 
And,  God  forgive  me,  I  smiled  at  his  wit.  But  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  what  his  next  step  would  have  been  had 
not  an  accident,  so  timely  as  to  seem  the  contribution  of 
a  malignant  fate,  assisted  him.  He  had  employed  detec- 
tives, but  when  they  came  to  look  up  Chilon  at  the  ad- 
dress given,  he  had  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace.  With 
him  had  been  a  man  named  Charles  Adams,  he  learned, 
and  this  man,  too,  was  missing.  The  pair  had  betaken 
themselves  to  some  distant  place,  in  all  likelihood,  but 
their  object  and  their  distination  were  not  revealed  to  him. 
In  the  meantime,  the  months  glided  by,  Lena  still  holding 
with  patient  dignity  to  the  secluded  life  she  had  chosen — 
all  communications  with  Ravenswood  severed.  She  had 
developed  well,  and  her  girlish  figure  had  now  merged 
into  that  of  the  youthful  matron,  so  dear  to  home  lovers. 
She  still  received  Richard  kindly,  and  heard  his  reports  of 
progress  and  lack  of  progress  with  alternate  moods  of 
hope  and  despair;  but  ever  she  maintained  her  unbroken 
faith  in  Chilon.  'If  alive,  he  will  come  back,'  she  said; 
'he  trusts  me  and  I  will  not  doubt  him.'  The  seeming 
accident  of  fate  was  this  paragraph,  which  appeared  in  the 
columns  of  a  Chicago  paper,  and  was  forwarded  by  the 
detective  bureau: 

"  'Chilon  Marbeau,  a  young  man  of  prepossessing  ap- 
pearance, was  arrested  yesterday  in  this  city  for  com- 


2l6  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

plicity  in  the  train  robbery  at  Butte  on  the  3rd  inst.  His 
name  and  description  were  given  in  the  confession  of  the 
wounded  robber.  He  admits  being  present  during  the 
attack  upon  the  train,  but  claims  that  he  took  no  part  in 
it.  He  is  of  a  well-known  southern  family.'  Even  Richard 
Marbeau  did  not  care  to  present  this  news  item  in  person 
at  Rose  Cottage.  He  inclosed  the  paper  by  mail,  mark- 
ing the  fatal  lines,  and  sent  a  sympathetic  note,  declaring 
his  belief  in  the  innocence  of  Chilon,  and  his  intention  to 
go  to  his  rescue  when  the  trial  took  place.  He  urged 
the  utmost  secrecy.  When  next  he  called,  Lena  received 
him  with  unchanged  dignity.  'Some  one  has  stolen  Chil- 
on's name/  she  said,  simply.  'Crime  with  him  is  impos- 
sible.' But  she  was  deeply  grateful  when  Richard  came 
to  tell  her  of  his  early  departure,  and,  holding  his  hand 
long,  kissed  it  impulsively  when  he  left. 

"And  Richard  did  so.  He  saw  the  accused  tried  and 
convicted  and  condemned  to  ten  years'  imprisonment;  a 
man  of  Chilon's  size,  but  older,  who  adhered  to  his  name, 
boldly,  even  when  Richard  revealed  his  own  identity.  He 
started  home  with  a  copy  of  the  condemned  man's  photo- 
graph— bitterly  disappointed.  It  was  while  on  this  re- 
turn trip  that  he  hatched  up  the  diabolical  plot  that  worked 
so  successfully.  He  called  upon  Lena  and  informed  her, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  the  story  was  true  and  Chilon's 
fate  sealed,  showing  complete  certified  copies  of  court 
proceedings;  and  he  delivered  this  message:  Tell  Lena 
I  think  that  I  must  have  been  crazy  at  Ravenswood.  I 
was  flattered  by  her  love,  but  I  did  not  love  her.  I  realize 
now  that  she  ruined  my  life.  But  for  her  I  would  have 
been  a  success  in  art.  I  am  now  only  a  convict.'  "  A  deep 
groan  caused  the  Colonel  to  look  quickly  to  his  guest. 
"Infamous,  infamous,"  he  heard  him  say.  "Then,  and  then 
only,"  continued  the  reader,  with  emotion,  "did  the  girl's 
heart  break ;  and  then  began  the  wearing  process.  This 
terrible  secret  brought  her  nearer  to  Richard,  and  one  day 
he  persuaded  her  to  ride  with  him  here.  I  received  her 


THE   STORY   CONCLUDED.  217 

gladly,  and  with  such  love  and  affection  as  quite  won  her 
again.  Again  and  again  she  returned.  Then  came  the 
old  arguments  over  and  over;  expediency  and  filial  duty; 
and  then  family  honor.  This  must  be  preserved;  and 
they  came  not  only  from  Richard,  but  from  me.  Divorce 
was  easy;  no  one  would  blame  her,  and  she  was  not  a 
Catholic  then.  It  was  a  mere  matter  of  form,  a  seven 
days'  wonder,  that  really  would  make  her  even  a  more 
interesting  figure  in  society.  And  Richard  had  been  so 
true,  so  noble!  God  save  the  mark!  And  then  came 
old,  austere  Mrs.  Marbeau,  Richard's  mother,  to  take  her 
abroad  for  a  few  months,  away  from  her  sad  associa- 
tions. 

"So  was  the  crime  completed.  Lena,  dazed,  heart- 
broken, and  caring  little  what  happened,  yielded.  Papers 
were  signed,  and  before  she  returned  the  divorce  had 
been  secured.  Richard  met  them  in  New  York,  and  an 
immediate  and  quiet  marriage  was  arranged  and  consum- 
mated. She  must  go  back  home  under  his  protection,  he 
said.  And  Richard  Marbeau  had  stolen  his  cousin's  wife 
by  an  infamy  that  was  almost  unparalleled  in  the  history 
of  crime. 

"But,  skillful  as  he  was,  the  whole  plot  at  one  time 
trembled  in  the  balance.  The  Chicago  item  drifted  south, 
and  was  copied  into  the  home  paper,  coming  at  once  be- 
neath my  eye.  Such  a  slur  upon  the  family  could  not  be 
suffered  to  endure  unquestioned.  I  sent  for  Richard,  and 
was  overjoyed  to  learn  the  truth;  but  what  Richard  had 
not  counted  upon  was  my  immediate  demand  that  the 
truth  be  published,  and  I  would  listen  to  no  excuse.  I 
prepared  a  statement,  setting  forth  the  facts,  and  published 
it  with  a  cut  of  the  real  criminal,  attaching  my  own  signa- 
ture and  the  certificate  of  identity  that  had  been  placed  on 
the  photograph.  This  ended  the  matter;  and  Richard 
forestalled  defeat  by  meeting  his  mother  in  New  York 
and  consummating  the  marriage  without  consulting  me. 

"Upon  their  return,  some  weeks  later,  Lena  settled 


2l8  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

down  to  a  life  that  was  absolutely  colorless.  The  mask 
was  now  thrown  aside,  and  the  true  character  of  Richard 
Marbeau  became  revealed  to  her.  He  made  no  effort  to 
keep  up  the  devotion  that  had  won  his  point.  The  wom- 
an now  his  wife  was  too  gentle,  shrinking  and  sad-eyed 
to  fill  the  demands  of  his  life;  too  unresponsive.  Gradu- 
ally he  drifted  back  to  former  affiliations,  and  the  one 
woman  he  came  nearer  to  loving  than  any  other,  the  wom- 
an who  shall  appear  in  this  record  only  as  Bijou.  It  is 
assumed  that  to  her  he  unburdened  himself  of  many 
things  which  in  caution  he  would  have  kept  secret.  The 
old  paper,  that  came,  marked,  to  Lena,  just  after  the  birth 
of  her  daughter,  containing  the  certificate  and  picture 
that  vindicated  Chilon,  was  directed  in  a  hand  the  sight 
of  which  drew  from  Richard  a  gush  of  profanity.  It  was 
probably  Bijou's  return  for  a  temporary  slight.  But  if 
he  had  deemed  Lena  too  shrinking  and  meek,  he  had 
cause  then  to  change  his  mind.  When  she  realized  the 
cruelty  of  the  deceptions  practiced  upon  her,  and  how 
she  had  been  led  to  forsake  Chilon  and  betray  his  faith, 
she  could  cheerfully  have  slain  the  man  who  laughed  at 
her  transports.  Without  more  ado,  she  took  her  babe 
and  went  to  Rose  Cottage.  Celeste  heard  the  whole  of 
the  sad  story,  forgave  her,  as  she  never  thought  to  do, 
and  took  her  back  to  her  old  place  again.  Weeks  passed, 
and  to  save  her  child,  for  he  made  her  think  it  would  be 
taken  from  her,  she  dried  her  tears  and  returned  to  the 
city  and  to  Richard.  But  before  she  went,  she  came  here, 
and  gave  me  the  saddest  experience  of  my  life.  I 
heard  the  story  from  her  lips,  the  story  of  his  infamy; 
and  I  heard  my  child  accuse  me  of  conspiracy  to  ruin  her 
life.  I  kept  her  and  sent  for  Richard.  He  gave  an  ex- 
cuse and  did  not  come.  I  went  to  his  office,  and,  stand- 
ing over  him,  made  him  write  my  vindication  as  I  dictated 
it.  Then  I  gave  him  my  opinion  of  his  conduct,  without 
reservation. 

"Lena  now  devoted  herself  to  the  little  girl,  going  often 


THE  STORY  CONCLUDED.  219 

to  Rose  Cottage  and  sometimes  coming  here.  On  these 
visits  she  nearly  approached  happiness;  but  she  would 
not  stay.  Over  all  hung  the  memory  of  Chilon,  and  the 
possibility  of  his  return. 

"Well,  I  am  almost  done.  Her  loneliness  finally  drove 
her  to  me.  We  loved  each  other  too  much  to  be  enemies. 
She  came,  and  she  made  me  bring  in  Celeste,  too.  And 
then  came  the  tragedy!" 

"Tragedy!" 

"The  night  we  all  met,  a  burglar  entered  my  house 
through  an  upper  room.  Richard  had  come  unexpectedly 
for  the  night,  and  met  him  in  the  hall.  He  attempted  to 
capture  the  fellow,  shot  at  him, — was  stabbed  and  killed 
instantly.  It  was  a  terrible  shock,  but  I  learned  to  look 
upon  it  finally  as  a  dispensation  of  mercy.  God,  I 
thought,  meant  to  solve  a  vexed  problem.  Only, " 

A  long  pause  followed. 

"Only?"  said  Chilon,  inquiringly. 

"The  problem  is  not  solved.    Chilon  is  still  missing." 

"And — the  lady, — Lena?" 

"She  waits." 

The  simple  dignity  of  the  answer  should  have  been 
conclusive,  but  Chilon  could  not  endure  the  silence 
longer. 

"Where  is  she?" 

The  Colonel  did  not  appear  to  hear.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments he  was  silent.  Then  he  looked  quickly  to  his  guest. 

"Oh,  she  is  an  invalid; — an  invalid.  Is  there  any  detail 
I  have  omitted?" 

"You  have  spoken  often  of  Gaston;  where  is  he?" 

"Manchester,  England." 

"Perhaps  Chilon  is  there, — or  he  may  know  of  him. 
But  of  course  you  have  considered  that!" 

"Yes.    But  he  is  not  there ; — has  never  been." 

"You  spoke  of  Gaston's  studio; — may  I  see  the  room? 
I  shall  study  your  manuscript  and  may,  perhaps,  have  a 
few  questions  more.  I  would  be  glad  to  see  this  studio." 


220  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"Certainly.    Come  with  me!" 

The  two  made  their  way  upstairs  and  entered  the  long 
room.  Nearly  all  of  the  artist's  belongings  had  been  re- 
moved. Chilon  looked  about  him  in  alarm." 

"It  is  no  longer  a  studio!" 

"No.  Gaston  sent  for  his  plunder  last  week.  A  strange 
fancy,  for  the  stuff  was  not  worth  freight.  But  artists  are 
artists ;  which  is  another  way  of  saying  they  are  imprac- 
tical. And  a  man's  Lares  and  Penats  must  be  respect- 
ed." 

Chilon  laid  his  hand  weakly  upon  an  old  desk. 

"A  queer  piece  of  furniture,  this.  It  would  charm  a 
hundred  people — dealers — that  I  know!" 

"Mere  rubbish !  This  way  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and 
I  will  show  you  Gaston's  favorite  view  from  the  window." 

The  Colonel's  back  was  turned  for  an  instant  as  he  led 
the  way.  Chilon  touched  the  spring  and  a  secret  drawer 
opened.  The  plates  were  safe.  But  how  obtain  them? 
He  looked  about  him  hurriedly.  At  the  door  stood  a  tall 
mulatto  woman,  whose  gray  eyes  held  him  spell-bound! 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  DESK.  221 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  DESK. 

Colonel  Marbeau,  his  eyes  resting  lovingly  upon  the 
beautiful  prospect  afforded  by  the  open  window,  was  not 
mindful  of  the  fact  that  his  companion  was  standing 
amazed  and  in  silence  by  the  desk.  Chilon  recovered 
himself  just  in  time  to  hear  the  footfalls  of  his  host  nearby, 
and  his  good-natured  words: 

"But  you  are  more  interested,  I  perceive,  in  old  furni- 
ture than  in  nature.  Well,  you  would  hardly  find  an 
odder  specimen.  This  desk  was  presented  to  my  father 
by  a  foreign  relative,  who  valued  it  because  it  was  an  heir- 
loom. My  father  was  not  greatly  impressed  with  heir- 
looms in  the  form  of  furniture,  and  it  drifted  about  the 
house  until  Gaston  rescued  and  brought  it  here.  It  has, 
among  other  oddities  of  construction,several  secret  apart- 
ments, a  fashion  in  the  Elizabethan  days,  I  believe.  This 
one,  for  instance,  is  the  first," — he  opened  the  well-known 
drawer, — "and  was  generally  supposed  to  be  the  only 
one.  But  within  it  is  a  spring  which  controls  another — 
there,  I  believe  I  have  found  it.  And,  by  the  way,  Gaston 
seems  to  have  left  here,  in  the  first  drawer,  some  of  his 
old  plates  and  papers.  Now,  let  me  see  how  that  second 
scheme  worked.  Oh,  yes;  the  top  rises  on  grooves. 
There  you  are."  The  top  was  now  lifted,  showing  a  space 
a  few  inches  deep,  but  extending  across  the  whole  length 
and  breadth  of  the  desk.  Chilon  was  facing  the  woman 
at  the  door.  He  saw  her  gaze  eagerly  upon  the  desk  as 
these  features  were  pointed  out,  and  start  violently.  The 
Colonel,  following  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  saw  her 
also.  He  instantly  excused  himself  and  went  to  her. 
Chilon  looked  to  the  plates;  he  even  put  his  hand  upon 
them.  Would  he  ever  have  another  opportunity,  if  he 


222  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

neglected  this  one?  He  turned  toward  the  door;  the 
woman's  eyes  had  never  left  him.  Then  he  saw  Colonel 
Marbeau  coming,  and  laid  the  plates  back. 

"You  were  saying," — he  began. 

"Oh,  about  the  secret  apartments.  Now,  inside  this 
cavity  is  a  spring  that  controls  another  space,  which  con- 
trols another;  and  so  on.  The  desk  is  simply  honey- 
combed with  hidden  spaces.  I  have  forgotten  the  loca- 
tion of  this  one" — he  was  feeling  in  the  second  apartment, 
and  now  withdrew  his  hand.  In  it  was  a  long,  queer-look- 
ing document,  a  sheepskin  covered  with  drawings,  num- 
bers and  names.  A  look  of  delight  flushed  his  face,  and 
he  trembled  with  suppressed  excitement. 

"How  remarkable,"  he  exclaimed.  "Here  is  our  family 
record,  lost  these  forty  years!  Mr.  Underbill,  you  are  a 
mascot!" 

With  almost  childish  delight  he  spread  the  parchment 
before  them,  revealing  its  great  array  of  records.  Gone 
now  from  his  mind  was  everything  else.  "You  cannot 
imagine,  my  dear  sir,  how  pleased  I  am.  This  document, 
although  of  no  practical  value,  has  been  searched  for,  ad- 
vertised for,  through  two  continents.  It  has  entailed  a 
large  expense  upon  me,  and  at  one  time  I  offered  a  small 
fortune  for  it." 

"I  congratulate  you,  sir!  And  I  may  add  that,  perhaps, 
having  been  the  means  indirectly  of  restoring  the  tree,  I 
may  also  become  the  instrument  for  restoring  its  lost 
branch." 

"Well  said;  I  believe  you  will!  My  father  had  been 
dead  some  years  before  we  had  occasion  to  use  this  rec- 
ord, and  then  it  was  the  search  began.  None  of  us  thought 
of  this  hiding  place,  or,  if  we  did,  overlooked  the  docu- 
ment. Until  Gaston  came,  I  was  about  the  only  person 
who  had  access  to  it.  I  must  take  it  down  and  complete 
the  record,  for  my  generation  is  the  last  that  has  been 
entered  there.  There  are  three  brothers  of  us,  Mr.  Under- 
hill,  and  one  half-brother;  but  there  it  all  is  better  than 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  DESK.  223 

I  can  explain."    The  part  of  the  diagram  pointed  out  was 
as  follows: 


•2817- 


2818  2819  2820         2821 

"We  keep  only  the  Marbeaus  and  the  direct  line,  the 
names  being  scheduled  upon  the  back  and  margins  of 
this  document,  as  you  perceive,  with  the  names  of  the  fe- 
males who  have  entered  the  family  by  marriage.  Rich- 
ard, number  2818,  was  the  half-brother,  and  2819,  2820, 
2821  stand  for  Gaston,  Francis  and  myself.''  He  bent 
over  the  yellow  record  with  deep  interest.  Chilon's  mind 
reverted  to  his  own  difficulty,  and  he  could  not  arouse 
himself  to  the  necessary  attention.  Who  was  that  strange, 
half-remembered  woman  at  the  door?  Her  face  haunted 
him !  And  the  plates !  In  a  few  moments  they  would  go 
out  of  the  room  and  the  door  would  be  locked.  But,  no, 
was  it  locked  when  they  came  to  it?  He  heard,  absently, 
the  voice  of  his  companion: 

"There  is  a  little  legend,  Mr.  Underbill,  connected  with 
the  Marbeaus  which  this  record  recalls.  In  all  the  long  list 
of  names  you  will  not  find  a  'W.'  An  Edward  there  was, 
and  a  William,  away  back,  but  that  was  before  'W'  was 
used  in  the  French.  They  appear  as  Edouard  and  Gil- 


224  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

laume.  Some  one  noticed  this  a  long  time  ago,  and  soon 
we  had  a  legend.  How  it  originated  I  do  not  know,  but 
the  rhyme  ran: 

When  "W"  enters  the  Marbeau  tree 
Happy  will  the  next  bride  be. 

"There  have  not  been  many  children,  and  it  has  so  hap- 
pened that  they  have  been  given  family  names.  Nobody 
has  seemed  to  care  enough  for  the  next  bride  to  forcibly 
thrust  a  'W  upon  a  child."  And  then  Colonel  Marbeau 
looked  curiously  upon  his  silent  companion. 

"You  were  saying,"  began  Chilon,  with  a  start;  and 
then,  remembering:  "Yes,  little  Lena  has  given  me  the 
rhyme,  and  your  prophecy  that  the  locusts  on  the  Mar- 
beau  trees  have  fulfilled  the  conditions.  I  trust  you  are 
right." 

A  dozen  times  over  there  had  been  upon  his  lips  the 
inquiry,  "Where  is  the  wife  of  this  Chilon,  who  has  dis- 
appeared?'' but  he  restrained  it.  The  temptation  was 
strong  at  that  moment,  but  while  he  was  waiting,  Colonel 
Marbeau  folded  his  precious  manuscript  and  turned  to 
him.  It  was  evident  that  the  interview  was  at  an  end, 
and  the  old  man  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  library  with 
his  treasure. 

At  the  door,  Chilon  said : 

"Pardon  me ;  I  will  close  the  door  for  you."  He  did 
so.  The  key  was  there,  but  he  did  not  turn  it.  But  as 
Colonel  Marbeau  seated  himself  in  his  great  chair,  he 
stood  by  the  entrance  a  moment,  resolved. 

"There  was  one  point  in  your  strange  story  you  seem 
to  have  omitted ;  it  may  not  be  pertinent  to  the  problem 
that  we  are  to  study  and  discuss,  and  yet  it  may  be;  your 

daughter,  the  wife  of  this  Chilon  Marbeau,  is  she ' 

His  voice  sounded  strange  and  faraway  from  himself.  His 
affected  carelessness  was  a  failure.  The  old  man  looked 
up  in  surprise,  and  for  a  moment  did  not  reply.  Then  he 
said,  simply: 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  DESK.  225 

"She  is  living.  Did  I  not  mention  the  fact?"  Nothing 
more. 

Chilon  waited  a  moment  and  withdrew. 

"I  believe  you  did!"  he  said.  The  elder  man  gave  his 
attention  to  the  document,  but  something  clung  to  his 
memory  that  would  not  be  put  aside;  something  sug- 
gested by  sight  of  the  man  who  had  gone  out  of  the 
room ;  a  peculiar  movement,  or  poise  of  head,  or  gesture, 
or  outline,  as  he  vanished  through  the  doorway.  Or  was 
it  the  tone  of  his  voice?  An  echo  from  a  faraway  time  had 
sounded  within  him. 

"It  was  very  strange,"  he  said,  presently.  But  the  docu- 
ment was  a  new  delight.  The  thought,  whatever  it  was, 
lost  its  importance. 


]5 


226  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST. 

Chilon  went  forth  into  the  woods  and  fields.  "What 
next?"  he  asked  of  himself.  His  uncle's  story  had  been 
told  in  detail,  except  upon  the  very  point  on  which  he 
most  desired  to  be  informed;  and  the  plates  were  safe. 
But  were  they  in  reach.  He  would  know  that  night. 
There  was  no  longer  anything  to  be  gained  by  staying  at 
Ravenswood.  There  had  come  to  him  in  his  mail  no  tid- 
ings of  the  man  he  sought.  If  he  had  appeared  in  New 
York  as  reported,  he  had  disappeared  with  equal  sudden- 
ness. For  himself,  there  was  nothing  more  but  to  carry 
out  his  contract  at  Washington,  and  that  he  would  do. 
He  was  obliged  not  only  by  his  promise,  but  by  a  new 
danger,  for  he  was  now  known  at  headquarters,  and  while 
his  safeguards  still  existed,  he  realized  that  this  renewal 
of  life  among  old  scenes  had  filled  him  with  much  of  the 
old  misery  and  restored  him  to  the  mental  condition  of 
the  man  who  had  escaped  from  prison.  The  man  who 
had  faced  the  chief  representative  of  the  government  se- 
cret service  no  longer  existed.  He  had  lost  his  nerve.  The 
hand  of  an  officer  on  his  shoulder  a  week  ago  would  have 
meant  nothing;  but  now!  His  appearance  would  be  a 
confession.  He  would  go;  and  the  sooner  the  better. 

As  he  wandered  on,  his  mind  returned  to  Lena  and  the 
mystery  that  overhung  her  life.  What  was  the  meaning 
of  his  uncle's  silence,  of  the  boy  Chilon's  hallucination, 
of  that  strange,  gray-eyed  mulatto?  Could  it  be  that 
Lena  was  at  Ravenswood  and  had  recognized  him?  Was 
he  known  to  both  of  them,  father  and  daughter?  It  was 
a  wonderful  coincidence  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  have 
been  summoned  to  find  himself. 

No !    It  was  impossible.    Colonel  Marbeau  was  no  ac- 


THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST.  227 

tor.  And  Lena  would  have  come  to  him.  She  was  sim- 
ply an  invalid,  as  stated,  probably  abroad  or  in  some  hos- 
pital. Only  why  this  silence  about  her?  And  how  ex- 
plain the  note? 

One  thing  cheered  him  momentarily.  The  belief  was 
general  that  a  burglar  had  slain  his  cousin  Richard.  No 
one  could  suspect  him  but  Lena;  and  possibly  she  did 
not.  And  so,  happier  than  he  would  have  believed,  he 
came  back  to  Ravenswood. 

The  evening  passed  slowly.  Little  Lena,  curled  up  in 
a  great  chair  in  the  parlor,  was  watching  the  swift  hands 
of  the  visitor  upon  the  ivories  of  the  organ,  and  listening, 
entranced,  to  the  sounds  he  awoke.  Strain  after  strain, 
chord  upon  chord,  harmony  upon  harmony,  in  infinite 
combinations,  filled  the  room.  Child  as  she  was,  the  girl's 
eyes  grew  wet  with  tears.  Some  voice,  some  influence, 
some  strange  power,  was  at  work  in  her  young  heart.  Oh, 
if  little  Chilon  were  there  with  her!  Colonel  Marbeau, 
moved  by  the  strange  outburst  of  feeling,  made  known 
upon  the  vibration  of  the  columned  air,  sat  with  his  face 
in  his  hands,  dreaming.  The  player's  mood  was  inex- 
plicable, unless  the  life  that  he  had  lived  over  that  day, 
under  the  spell  of  his  uncle's  eloquence,  was  still  with  him. 
Unconsciously,  after  one  great  climax  of  emotion,  while 
the  echoes  still  filled  the  house,  his  fingers  strayed  absent- 
ly into  the  notes  of  the  plaintive  little  song  that  the  child 
had  sung  to  him.  A  voice  from  the  past  hovered  near  to 
sing.  The  duet  began  between  the  man  who  played  and 
the  voice  that  came  vibrant  from  the  vox  humana  of  the 
organ.  The  beautiful  combination  at  once  aroused  his 
listeners.  It  was  a  new  experience,  and  never  to  be  re- 
peated, for  one  life  would  scarcely  hold  two  such  coinci- 
dences. For  the  man  who  played  was  before  them,  with 
compressed  lips,  pouring  a  torrent  of  passionate  feeling 
from  a  man's  heart ;  and  the  voice  that  sung  was  a  boy's 
voice,  clear  and  sweet,  and  full  of  the  joy  of  loving,  seek- 
ing expression  through  the  hidden  chords  of  his  life, 


228  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

joined  by  touch  of  hand  and  beat  of  heart  to  the  vibrant 
air.  It  was 'a  duet  between  the  two  natures  of  one  man. 

At  the  conclusion  Chilon  paused,  exhausted.  No  music 
remained  in  him;  the  effort  had  been  supreme.  The 
room  grew  still,  and  the  impassioned  air  within  the  pipes 
dozed  off  into  vibrations  too  fine  for  human  grasp — unless 
that  sweetly-solemn  rest  that  succeeds  fine  music  is  the 
overtone  of  it  all  caught  by  a  sense  as  yet  undefined.  He 
seemed  to  feel  a  light  touch  upon  his  face.  Lifting  his 
bowed  head,  he  saw,  standing  by  the  door,  Lena  Mar- 
beau,  the  woman.  Her  eyes  met  his  and  caressed  him 
with  infinite  love  and  tenderness.  Then,  as  she  stood, 
the  love-look  died  out  of  her  face  as  the  sunlight  from  a 
twilight  cloud.  Her  features  became  agitated.  Swifter 
changes  succeeded,  until,  distorted  with  fear  and  horror, 
it  lost  all  beauty.  She  threw  her  hands  above  her  head, 
and  uttered  a  piercing  shriek.  Almost  instantly  the  tall 
mulatto  stood  by  her  side,  seized  her  wrists  and  drew  her 
away.  Chilon  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  caught  blindly 
for  support  at  the  objects  which  swam  in  the  scene  about 
him.  He  felt  himself  seized  and  heard  his  uncle's  low, 
sad  voice: 

"It  was  enough  to  startle  any  one,  my  dear  friend.  We 
owe  you  a  thousand  apologies.'' 

"It  was  real,  then !"  Chilon  shivered  and  looked  toward 
the  door. 

"Yes.  The  lady  is  the  wife  of  the  man  we  seek  to  find, 
Chilon  Marbeau.  The  air  you  played  was  a  favorite  with 
them  both,  and  has  drawn  her  from  her  apartments  while 
her  attendant,  perhaps,  slept." 

"Her  attendant!    Does  she  require? " 

"Yes.    She  is  insane." 

"It  cannot — it  cannot  be  true !''  The  agony  in  his  voice 
touched  the  old  man  deeply. 

"It  is  true!"  He  could  say  no  more  for  a  moment,  and 
then  Chilon  Marbeau,  as  in  a  dream,  while  he  stood  with 
the  perspiration  streaming  from  every  pore,  heard  these 


THE  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST.  229 

words:  "Now  you  will  understand  why  we  must  find 
Chilon  Marbeau.  For  the  best  of  medical  experts  have 
said  that  if  his  presence  does  not  right  her  mind — she 
cannot  escape  the  asylum.  I  had  not  thought  to  betray 
her  misfortune,  and  our  most  sacred  sorrow;  but  it  was 
unavoidable.  I  trust  now  to  your  honor."  The  old  man 
turned  away,  abruptly.  Chilon,  with  his  hand  upon  his 
throat,  almost  rushed  from  the  room. 

His  presence  had  crazed  her  anew. 

Whither  he  wandered,  or  how  long,  he  never  knew. 
His  first  realization  was  that  he  stood  before  Rose  Cot- 
tage, his  clothing  soiled  and  torn,  and  Celeste  was  there, 
sewing  by  candlelight. 


230  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
CHILON,  THE  BOY. 

Two  powers  quarreled  good-naturedly  over  the  boy- 
hood of  little  Chilon  at  Rose  Cottage.  Pierre,  Celeste's 
maternal  grandfather,  out  of  fashion  as  a  private  teacher 
of  the  dead  languages,  had  come  soon  after  the  tragedy 
at  Ravenswood  to  make  his  home  with  her.  A  gentle,  pa- 
tient, impractical  enthusiast,  his  instinct  nevertheless  rec- 
ognized the  singular  purity  and  power  of  the  boy's 
mind  and  its  natural  bent;  and  he  determined  to  clothe 
it  with  all  the  beauties  that  he  could  command.  It  was  to 
be  his  last  work  on  earth,  the  dying  effort  of  an  intellect 
to  perpetuate  itself.  Robert  Aubren,  sturdy  and  strong, 
had,  for  the  sake  of  Celeste,  taken  the  boy  to  his  big 
heart.  "Let  him  be  a  soldier,"  he  said.  "The  country 
will  need  him  some  day."  But  later,  he  said  to  Pierre, 
sadly,  "You  have  taught  his  mind  ahead  of  the  arm.  He 
will  never  be  a  soldier."  The  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  as 
was  the  prophecy  of  Pierre,  \vhen  he  foresaw  in  the  slen- 
der limb  and  shapely  head  the  beauty  of  Apollo.  Beauti- 
ful, he  grew,  but  his  was  more  the  beauty  of  the  Apollo 
of  the  angels. 

In  the  heart  of  Celeste  love  for  the  lonely  child  grew 
into  an  endless  song  that  thrilled  all  life  with  subtle  mur- 
murs. Yet  at  all  times  there  was  a  minor  chord,  a  vague 
dread.  She  never  chided  him  for  his  weird  fancies.  She 
could  not  divest  her  mind  of  the  idea  that  somewhere 
around  her  watched  an  ever-present  spirit.  His  strange 
eyes,  that  looked  with  intelligence  and  interest  into  the 
space  of  field  and  woodland,  filled  her  with  wonder,  some- 
times alarm.  She  dared  not  ask  him  if  he  saw  anything 
there  concealed  from  her.  She  half  thought  he  did.  It 
was  at  such  times  only  that  he  smiled.  A  fleeting,  delicate 
change  came  over  his  face,  flickered,  and  was  gone,  as 


CHILON,  THE  BOY.  231 

suddenly  as  though  the  shadow  of  a  passing  bird  had 
swept  it. 

Pierre  was  not  so  forbearing.  He  rebuked  the  child 
for  his  silence  and  his  fancies.  Yet  with  strange  incon- 
sistency he  fed  the  mind  on  fancies.  Chilon,  as  he  grew, 
drunk  in  knowledge  from  the  lips  of  the  old  teacher  with 
a  readiness  and  understanding  almost  incredible.  Latin 
and  Greek  were  nothing  to  him  except  that  they  held  the 
treasure  of  the  past.  He  resolutely  declined  to  apply 
himslf  to  their  acquisition.  He  was  the  sole  auditor  of 
an  old  man  who  himself  delighted  in  them.  At  thirteen 
Chilon  knew  the  Latin  poets  and  had  absorbed  the  beau- 
tiful fables  of  the  Greek  by  word  of  mouth.  In  these  he 
found  his  greatest  charm.  Mythology  was  at  his  tongue's 
end  and  he  knew  every  god  and  goddess  as  other  children 
knew  fairy  tales.  Did  he  believe  them?  Implicitly.  He 
dwelt  upon  Olympus  and  soon  he  found  a  little  ^Egean 
sea. 

But  Pierre  did  not  have  the  problem  many  years1; 
death  sent  him  to  the  immortals,  and  Chilon,  the  boy, 
grew  sadder,  quieter,  paler,  as  the  reality  of  life  dawned 
upon  him.  The  mysterious  wave  of  theosophy  that  had 
swept  the  country  reached  him  and  found  him  ready.  The 
world  became  to  him  the  playground  of  the  mind,  the 
crucible  of  the  spirit. 

It  was  upon  the  death  of  Pierre  that  the  boy's  character 
became  more  clearly  revealed.  In  the  hours  of  agony 
through  which  the  dying  teacher  crept  to  eternal  sleep 
he  stood  by  the  bedside,  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  him  whose 
lips  had  broken  the  seals  of  his  mystery  and  led  him 
through  the  twilight  of  a  bygone  age.  He  did  not  leave 
the  bedside  while  breath  was  in  the  pain-racked  body, 
nor  shed  tears  even  when  the  light  forsook  the  eyes  fixed 
for  the  last  time  upon  him.  He  turned  away  quietly  and 
went  forth  then  into  the  fields  and  forest.  For  three  days 
they  saw  but  little  of  him.  The  hearse  came  from  the  city 
and  the  body  of  old  Pierre  was  laid  away  to  rest  by  the 


232  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

river.  Celeste,  in  the  solemn  hours  of  that  parting,  had 
little  time  to  bestow  upon  even  the  boy,  but  when  all  was 
over  and  the  sunshine  crept  again  around  the  silent  cot- 
tage, she  noticed  him.  He  came  and  knelt  by  her  side 
and  laid  his  arms  about  her.  Her  heart  was  full.  It  had 
been  a  habit  of  his  in  childhood;  but  long  since  put  aside. 
Looking  down  into  his  eyes  instinct  revealed  to  her  some- 
thing deeper  than  mere  grief.  Unconsciously,  as  of  old, 
when  he  used  to  wake  and  listen  in  the  long  nights,  she 
began  to  sing  to  him.  Then  the  old  passion  deepened  in 
his  eyes,  and  his  head,  with  its  clustering  ringlets,  sank 
slowly,  and  rested  on  her  breast.  In  that  moment  the 
soul  of  the  woman  and  the  strange,  sad  soul  of  the  boy 
drew  closer  than  ever  before.  Somehow  she  felt  that  he 
was  more  human  than  she  had  dreamed.  It  was  not 
often  that  she  questioned  him  of  his  wanderings;  they 
were  always  innocent,  and  generally  the  insect  or  flower 
that  he  bore  upon  returning,  told  a  straight  story;  but 
to-day,  in  sympathy  over  the  loss  that  had  fallen  heaviest 
upon  him,  she  asked  him  where  he  had  been. 

"At  Ravenswood,  generally,"  he  said. 

"Ravenswood!"  She  could  not  suppress  the  ex- 
clamation nor  conceal  her  surprise — almost  terror.  "And 
what  were  you  doing  there?" 

"I  went  to  see  Lena."     Here  was  a  revelation. 

"Did  you  enter  the  house?" 

"No,  mother.     I  only  go  to  the  lake  and  the  grove." 

"And  how  did  you  meet  Lena?" 

"She  came.     I  knew  she  would  come." 

For  a  long  time  the  woman  sat  motionless  except  that 
her  hand  gently  stroked  the  boy's  hair.  It  was  not  en- 
tirely selfishness  that  had  caused  her  to  keep  her  boy 
from  Ravenswood.  A  strange  dread  of  the  first  meeting 
between  him  and  her  uncle  postponed  the  hour.  And 
there  had  been  no  difficulty  in  the  avoidance.  The  recon- 
ciliation begun  upon  that  fatal  night,  died  in  its  incep- 
tion by  the  perversity  of  the  man.  She  soon  found  that 


CHILON,  THE  BOY.  233 

the  wife,  but  not  the  husband,  was  to  be  welcomed  at 
Ravens  wood.  The  old  aristocrat  could  not  brook  the 
thought  of  meeting  Robert  Aubren  on  equal  terms;  and 
her  loyal  heart  took  up  arms  again. 

Lena,  the  woman,  came  from  time  to  time  and  watched 
the  boy  develop,  sitting  by  the  hour  often  with  her  sad 
eyes  resting  upon  him.  And  then  a  strange  thing  hap- 
pened. There  came  a  time  when  the  sight  of  him  drew 
forth  floods  of  tears  and  passionate  caresses,  followed 
soon  by  a  revulsion  and  a  fear  that  was  pitiful.  There  was 
soon  a  consultation  at  Ravenswood.  "Nervous  prostra- 
tion," they  called  it.  And  a  year  before  the  death  of 
Pierre,  Lena  had  been  taken  to  Uncle  Gaston's  in  Eng- 
land for  a  complete  change.  After  a  while  her  uncle 
came  back  with  the  child;  and  Lena  had  been  so  much 
benefited,  it  had  been  thought  best  to  leave  her.  So  it 
was  announced,  the  information  after  many  days  drifting 
to  Rose  Cottage. 

What  was  now  to  become  of  her  boy?  Celeste  asked 
herself  the  question  as  she  sat  over  him  that  day.  "Un- 
fitted for  companions  or  manual  labor,  without  his  teach- 
er, and  their  library  insignificant,  what  was  he  to  do?" 
She  met  the  issue  bravely  when  she  found  that  it  must  be 
met. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  go  to  the  house,  Chilon?  There 
are  great  books,  hundreds  of  them  there  that  tell  of  many 
beautiful  women  and  strange  dreams " 

"May  I  read  them?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"We  shall  see."     She  smiled  sadly  over  his  enthusiasm. 

But  when  Robert  was  consulted  he  shook  his  head  and 
made  a  suggestion  so  in  keeping  with  her  old  fear  that  she 
keenly  regretted  for  the  moment  her  decision.  Still,  hav- 
ing awakened  the  boy's  hopes,  she  would  not  disappoint 
him.  She  dispatched  a  note  to  her  uncle,  stating  her 
wish,  and  it  brought  a  hearty  response: 

"Let  the  boy  come.  The  books  are  his  to  read, — as 
many  as  he  likes." 


234  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

She  dressed  him  on  the  morrow  in  the  suit  that  fitted 
his  slender  form  so  well,  clasped  her  belt  with  the  silver 
buckle  about  his  waist,  and  crowned  his  curls  with  his 
jaunty  cap.  And  so  Chilon,  the  boy,  came  to  Ravens- 
wood. 

It  was  a  day  of  sunshine  and  beauty.  Little  Lena  had 
not  heard  of  his  coming;  with  intuitive  wisdom  she  had, 
from  words  profane  dropped  from  time  to  time,  gathered 
that  the  Aubrens  did  not  stand  well  in  Colonel  Marbeau's 
opinion;  and  her  acquaintance  with  the  boy  had  not  been 
mentioned.  She  knew,  however,  that  in  him  there  could 
be  no  blame. 

Old  Jerry  answered  Chilon's  summons,  took  one  look 
at  him,  and  drew  back  as  from  a  ghost: 

"Lord,  hab  mussay!''  he  exclaimed;  and  then,  "who 
you,  honey;  and  what  you  want  hyah?" 

"I  have  come  to  see  Colonel  Marbeau,"  said  the  boy 
with  dignity,  "you  will  tell  him  that  Chilon  Aubren  is 
here." 

"No,  I  won't,  honey!  Ain'  gwine  tell  'im  no  Aubren 
hyah!  You  go  in  dat  room  deir  whar  de  liberry  is,  an' 
tell  'im  yo'sef."  And  Jerry,  pointing  the  way,  beat  a  re- 
treat. The  boy  entered  and  stood  in  the  broad  doorway 
of  the  library,  seeking  with  his  grave  eyes,  fresh  from  the 
sunlight,  to  pierce  the  shadows.  He  stood  for  the  mo- 
ment, one  foot  half  raised,  his  cap  in  hand.  The  silence 
deepened,  and  then  the  paper  in  Colonel  Marbeau's  hand 
rattled  to  the  floor,  and  he  arose.  His  face  was  pallid,  and 
his  eyes  fixed  in  a  stare  upon  the  young  form  before  him, 
while  his  labored  breathing  revealed  a  deep  agitation. 
At  that  moment  a  girl's  voice  in  song  rang  through  the 
house,  and,  smiling,  Chilon  turned  his  face  to  listen. 

"Speak,"  said  the  man,  hoarsely,  "who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Chilon  Aubren,  sir!"  Colonel  Marbeau  sank 
slowly  into  his  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
A  low  groan  escaped  his  lips.  From  time  to  time  he 
lifted  his  head  and  gazed  upon  the  slender  figure. 


CHILON,  THE  BOY.  235 

"And  your  name  is  Chilon !" 

"Yes,  sir."     The  man  nodded. 

"Why,  of  course !  You  are  Celeste's  boy,  I  remember. 
Books?  As  many  as  you  wish,  my  son;  there  they  are  all 
along  the  walls.  I  am  not  well,  and  cannot  help  you 
much, — but  you  are  welcome,  very  welcome.  Come  clos- 
er and  let  me  see  you!  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  resting  his 
hand  upon  Chilon's  shoulder,  "straight,  well-formed, — 
but  rather  light  for  a  soldier!"  Chilon  submitted  to  the 
examination  in  silence.  The  Colonel  stroked  his  curly 
hair  gently,  and  gazed  tenderly  into  his  eyes. 

"You  are  like  him, — very  like  him! — The  uncle  for 
whom  you  were  named!"  he  said.  Rising  again  he 
limped  from  the  room.  At  the  door,  he  turned. 

"Excuse  me,  my  son,  and  make  yourself  at  home!  I 
will  send  Lena  to  entertain  and  help  you. — Lena! — Chil- 
on!" He  repeated  the  names.  His  chin  sank  upon  his 
breast,  as  he  turned  away. 

Lena  came  with  glad,  quick  steps,  and  took  both  his 
hands. 

"I  am  so  happy,"  she  began,  and,  noticing  his  eyes, 
"What  is  it,  Chilon?  Something  is  troubling  you!" 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  looking  about  him  slowly,  "I 
seem  to  hear  voices."  She  listened  intently. 

"I  do  not  hear  them."  He  was  gazing  then  intently 
upon  her  face. 

"I  seem  to  have  stood  here  once  before  with  you,"  he 
said,  thoughtfully.  She  smiled  at  his  words  as  she  an- 
swered, confidently: 

"That  could  not  have  been.  But  you  will  be  here  often 
now,  and  that  is  better!" 


236  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

DREAMS   AND   THE    DREAMER. 

With  the  assistance  of  his  young  friend  Chilon  drew 
down  the  volumes,  and  plunged  into  their  mysteries.  It 
was  not  long  before  he  found  congenial  themes.  A  great 
book  lay  open  to  him,  the  wanderings  in  Egypt  of  that 
oldest  of  historians,  Herodotus.  With  hands  pressed  to 
his  temples,  and  his  slender  figure  extended  upon  the 
floor  in  his  favorite  attitude,  he  read  while  the  sunlight 
crept  across  the  window  sills,  and  the  hum  of  the  outer 
life  quieted  into  midday  repose.  Little  Lena  would  not 
interrupt  him  at  first,  but  as  time  passed  on  she  spoke. 
He  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Smiling  over  his  absorption 
and  happy  in  his  interest,  she  wandered  away.  She  threw 
open  the  organ  and  seated  herself  to  play.  Her  highest 
talent  would  always  be  in  music,  and  from  infancy  she 
had  been  taught  by  the  best  instructors.  Few  girls  of  her 
tender  age,  unless  born  for  the  art,  would  have  equaled 
her  execution.  But  behind  her  acquired  technique  was  a 
strong  heredity,  a  nature  cast  in  harmonies,  and  to-day  a 
peculiar  environment.  The  silence,  the  presence  of  her 
strange  companion,  who  had  already  begun  to  affect  her 
sympathies  powerfully;  the  memory  of  their  woodland 
meetings  and  his  sad  spirit — all  unanalyzed  though  they 
were — lent  their  influence  to  the  hour.  Her  repertoire 
was  not  large  nor  difficult,  but  it  embraced  low,  sweet 
and  simple  nocturnes,  reveries  and  wordless  songs — mu- 
sic that  suited  her  best.  As  she  played,  unconsciously 
her  soul  went  into  the  themes.  The  boy,  the  situation, 
and  all  were  forgotten.  Slowly,  measure  by  measure, 
the  mystery  unfolded,  wailed  and  died  away,  to  rise  again 
as  her  fancy  changed.  It  deepened  sometimes  to  sorrow; 
it  sometimes  rose  to  happier  thoughts,  it  ended  in  a  lulla- 
by that  seemed  to  sing  itself  asleep.  To  her  listener,  the 


DREAMS   AND   THE   DREAMER.  237 

imaginative  boy,  the  music  held  the  song  of  birds,  the 
murmur  of  the  forests,  the  wailing  of  the  winds,  the  rip- 
pling brooks.  They  came  and  passed,  obedient  to  the 
touch  of  her  magic  fingers.  Nay,  more;  the  spirits  that 
had  first  spoken  there  came  back  and  filled  the  room,  dim, 
gray  specters  that  moved  with  the  stateliness  of  the  val- 
ley mists,  that  turned  their  veiled  faces  upon  him  and 
seemed  about  to  speak,  but  never  did.  Something  held 
their  lips  dumb;  they  faded  out  in  silence. 

What  had  happened?    Only  this,  the  music  had  ceased. 

And  then,  attracted  beyond  his  power  to  resist,  he  went 
quietly  and  stood  by  the  girl,  who  was  resting  one  hand 
upon  the  organ,  the  fingers  of  the  other  slowly  playing  a 
soundless  melody  upon  the  still  ivories.  She  looked  up 
and  met  his  gaze  with  a  wistful  smile. 

"What  is  it,  Chilon?"  she  asked. 

"Sister!"  He  rested  his  hand  upon  her  head  and 
looked  away  with  a  troubled  face. 

"Oh,  that  is  good  of  you,  Chilon.  I  will  be  your  sis- 
ter." A  faint  smile  flitted  upon  his  face,  but  her  eyes 
were  wet. 

"Mother  told  me  once — once  when  she  thought  I  was 
lonely — but  crying  as  she  said  it,  that  some  day  I  would 
have  a  sister.  She  always  speaks  the  truth — always. 
Maybe  this  is  what  she  meant!" 

The  girl  smiled  back  happily  to  him. 

"And  I  will  be  the  best  sister!  Oh,  Chilon,  I  am  so 
glad !"  His  hand  still  rested  upon  her  curls. 

"Sister  Lena!"  he  said,  gently.  "What  a  beautiful 
name.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  dreamed  while  you  were 
playing?" 

"Yes." 

"You  remember  the  day  I  was  listening  to  the  waters 
that  sung  down  in  the  valley — I  could  not  tell  you  then. 
You  were  not  my  sister  then." 

"The  day  you  went  away  so  sad?  Oh,  yes.  You 
didn't  even  say,  'Good-bye,  Lena.' " 


238  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

"It  all  came  back  to-day,  for  your  music  was  the  falling 
water  and  the  ripple  in  the  grass.  They  spoke  to  me  as 
they  did  then." 

"I  could  hear  nothing,"  she  said,  sadly,  shaking  her 
head.  "I  never  hear  the  voices  that  come  to  you.  I 
wish  that  I  could." 

"But  I  can  always  tell  you,  my  sister;  and  that  is  bet- 
ter." 

"I  don't  know.  The  organ — the  waters,  have  pleasant 
voices.  I  think,  if  they  speak  words,  they  must  tell  of 
pleasant  things  always.  Do  they  not?" 

"That  day,"  he  said,  "as  I  lay  I  heard  my  name  called. 
At  first  I  thought  it  came  from  the  wind,  but  I  knew  soon 
it  was  the  brook.  I  bent  and  listened.  Then  it  seemed 
to  speak  again.  'I  know  you,  Chilon;  many  times  your 
shadow  has  dwelt  upon  me,  and  many  a  time  I  have 
shadowed  you.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were  lying 
upon  the  grass  in  the  field  reading,  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
crept  over  you?  It  came  with  the  wind  that  whispered, 
and,  thinking  something  called  you  from  the  shadow  you 
followed  it  until  it  crept  over  Ravenswood.  It  was  a 
weary  chase  I  led  you  that  day,  Chilon,  but  it  brought  you 
to  the  sister  you  have  wished  for  so  long.  I  am  changed 
now.  I  fell  upon  the  hills  and  have  sought  you  through 
all  the  forests  in  vain.  I  have  a  message  from  a  woman 
who  came  and  dwelt  one  day  with  me.  She  loved  you 
well,  Chilon ;  better  than  you  know.  As  we  passed  over 
you  that  day,  and  you  followed  the  shadow,  she  wept, 
saying  "he  has  followed  shadows  long,  but  it  will  not  be 
always.  Love  will  complete  the  dream."  You  thought 
her  tears  upon  your  face  were  raindrops.'  That  is  what 
the  waters  said." 

For  a  few  moments  neither  spoke.  Lena  was  thinking 
over  his  words,  trying  to  reach  their  hidden  meaning. 
Chilon  was  thinking  only  of  the  last  words  of  the  strange 
message  he  had  received. 

"Love  completes  the  dream,"  he  repeated,  "but  what 


DREAMS  AND   THE   DREAMER.  239 

is  love?"  She  thought  gravely  upon  this  ancient  propo- 
sition, and  answered  him. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it,  but  I  think,  Chilon,  if  of  all 
things  the  choice  were  ours  to  keep  some  forever,  love 
would  teach  us  how  to  choose."  He  nodded,  well 
pleased  at  the  reply. 

"And  you,  Lena,  what  would  you  choose?" 

She  smiled  confidently,  looking  into  his  brown  eyes 
without  embarrassment. 

"I  should  choose  Mamma  and  you!" 

"I  think,  then,  I  must  love  you,  Sister  Lena.  I  would 
choose  the  same  way!"  She  lifted  her  face,  her  eyes  fill- 
ing again,  but  a  radiant  smile  chasing  away  the  shadows. 

"Perhaps,  then,  this  is  what  the  brook  meant  when  it 
said,  'love  completes  the  dream.'  Are  you  happy  now?" 

"Happy?"  He  repeated  the  word  softly.  "I  don't 
know  what  it  means,  Sister  Lena;  I  think  I  will  never 
know  until  the  winds  and  the  birds  are  silent,  and  the 
shadows  do  not  fall."  She  did  not  answer  this.  Pres- 
ently, noticing  her  abstraction,  he  said: 

"And  you — you  are  happy?" 

"Yes.  I  am  happy  nearly  always,  and  happiest  when 
the  breezes  bring  the  bird's  song  and  move  the  shadows 
on  the  ground;  happiest  now,  when  I  am  with  you,  and 
there  are  no  troubles  in  your  eyes." 

"Why  are  you  happy?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that!  But  I  am  not  happy  when 
Grandfather  scolds  me,  and  oh,  so  unhappy  when  I  do  not 
meet  you.  Did  your  Grandfather  scold  you?" 

"Sometimes;  but  I  went  into  the  woods  and  soon  for- 
got it."  Presently  she  asked  him,  her  voice  sunk  to  a 
whisper: 

"Do  you  ever  hear  his  voice,  Chilon?" 

"Not  to-day." 

"Would  you  be  afraid  to  die,  Chilon?'' 

"No."     He  looked  up,  surprised. 

"I  would.     It  seems  so  strange  to  think  of  dying;    so 


240  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

lonely,  maybe.  We  are  here  with  our  friends;  we — die; 
we  go,  then,  maybe,  among  strangers  somewhere,  and 
look  for  the  poor  we  used  to  know  in  this  life;  we 
maybe  can  hear  their  voices,  and  feel  them  thinking 
about  us,  but  we  can't  find  them,  and  they  can't  find  us." 
He  looked  at  her,  astonished  and  flushed  with  excite- 
ment. Without  thought  he  placed  his  arm  about  her  and 
drew  her  to  him. 

"You  are  the  only  one  I  have  ever  found,  my  sister." 

"You  think  you  knew  me,  then,  in  some  other  life.  Oh, 
Chilon,  is  it,  could  it  be  true?" 

"It  is  true!"  he  said,  simply.  He  bent  over  her  and 
pressed  his  lips  silently  to  her  forehead.  "We  will  not 
lose  each  other  again — while  we  live." 

So  into  the  life  of  the  little  woman,  had  Chilon  come; 
and  as  the  weeks  passed  Celeste  questioned  him.  What 
if  some  day  he  never  came  back  from  Ravenswood?  For 
the  son  of  Robert  Aubren  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  a 
very  different  personage  from  the  grandson  of  Charles 
Marbeau.  And  when  the  day  came  for  her  to  decide  be- 
tween her  heart  and  the  future  of  the  boy,  how  would  she 
decide? 


THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG.  241 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG. 

Little  Chilon  had  long  been  a  visitor  to  Ravenswood. 
Celeste  was  in  the  cozy  sitting  room  at  Rose  Cottage  sew- 
ing by  the  light  of  a  candle,  that  being  sufficient  for  the 
work  in  hand.  Lamps  are  oppressive  on  southern  sum- 
mer evenings.  She  was  alone,  her  husband  having  been 
detained,  as  sometimes  happened  upon  his  necessary  vis- 
its to  the  city.  But,  while  lonely,  she  was  not  nervous, 
for  although  many  years  had  passed  since  the  war,  and 
some  sections  suffered  from  the  uncontrolled  forces  so 
suddenly  emancipated,  the  negroes  of  the  neighborhood 
were  orderly  and  industrious.  She  was  accustomed,  too, 
to  solitude  and  watching  since  death  had  removed  her 
older  companions.  In  the  light  of  her  candle,  her  dark 
oval  face,  with  its  fine,  firm  features,  her  black  hair  loos- 
ened for  the  night,  her  strong,  supple  form  stood  out  of  the 
shadow  like  a  figure  in  some  old  Dutch  painting.  Grown 
older,  she  had  not  aged;  time  and  the  cares  of  wifehood 
and  motherhood  had  only  ripened  all  the  promises  of  her 
girlhood.  Woman  as  she  was,  and  full  of  womanly 
weakness,  her  life  had  formed  itself  about  passions  as 
strong  as  chains  of  steel.  Passions  that  at  times  sus- 
tained her  when  most  women  would  have  failed.  Love 
was  the  controlling  influence  of  her  nature. 

To-night  as  she  sat  at  work  her  mind  played  host  to 
memory.  She  thought  of  Lena.  Many  days  had  passed 
since  she  had  sat  with  arms  about  her,  seeking  to  recall 
again  the  confused  and  wandering  mind,  failing  always, 
except  to  soothe  and  quiet.  A  stranger  was  at  the  house, 
his  purpose  unknown  to  her,  and  she  disliked  strangers. 
Her  life  had  been  spent  in  a  narrow  circle,  and  those  who 
dwelt  by  her  were  sufficient.  Instinctively  she  feared 
change  and  innovation.  Nothing  good  to  her  could 

16 


242  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

come  of  change,  and  much  might  that  would  not  be  good. 

While  thus  engaged,  a  slight  sound  drew  her  attention 
toward  the  open  door,  and  there  she  saw  standing,  a  man 
of  soiled  and  disheveled  dress  and  reckless  expression. 
Astonished,  and  for  the  moment  doubtful,  she  arose  and 
stood  waiting.  The  stranger  glanced  quickly  about  the 
room  and  entered. 

"Pardon  me,  madame,"  he  said,  his  speech  nervous  and 
hurried,  "is  this  the  home  of  Madame  Aubren — Celeste 
Aubren?" 

She  did  not  move,  nor  for  the  moment  reply.  One 
clinched  hand  went  quickly  to  her  temple  and  remained 
pressed  there  tightly,  a  feminine  gesture  born  of  terror 
and  peculiar  to  southern  races.  She  looked  about  her; 
there  was  no  escape  outward,  since  the  man  was  at  the 
door.  But  it  was  not  escape  she  sought.  Her  eyes  re- 
turned to  his  face  and  remained  fixed  upon  him,  fascinat- 
ed. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  whispered,  her  bosom  rising  and 
falling  in  increasing  agitation.  The  stranger  averted  his 
face  for  a  moment,  bringing  the  profile  into  view.  When 
he  looked  again  he  was  startled  by  the  change  in  the  wo- 
man. She  now  stood  erect  as  though  responding  to  a  sud- 
den call  for  decision  and  action,  her  eyes  blazing  with 
dread  and  excitement. 

"You  have  come  back,"  she  said,  her  voice  still  reduced 
to  a  whisper,  intensified  by  the  feeling  it  carried.  Chil- 
on's  decision  had  been  but  half  formed;  he  hardly  knew 
clearly  why  he  had  come  to  her.  Indefinitely  he  had 
thought  to  see  Celeste.  Despair  had  brought  him,  as  in 
the  olden  time  unhappiness  was  wont  to  bring  the  boy. 
At  the  last  moment  the  necessity  for  disguise  had  flashed 
over  him,  and  he  had  made  the  effort  weakly. 

Her  prompt  discovery  of  his  identity,  due  to  his  voice 
and  profile,  and  the  concealment  by  the  shadows  of  his 
changed  appearance,  disconcerted  and  defeated  him  for 


THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG.  243 

the  time.     He  was  momentarily  speechless  and  embar- 
rassed. 

The  revulsion  that  followed  was  natural  to  such  a  na- 
ture as  his.  It  was  due  to  relief.  The  load  had  slipped 
from  him,  and,  although  defeated  in  his  plans,  he  was 
free  to  talk  upon  his  life  and  its  embarrassments.  It  is 
true  even  that  for  the  moment,  so  marked  was  the  change 
of  feeling  that  came  over  him,  he  was  almost  happy.  A 
half  smile  lit  his  handsome  face,  the  ghost  of  the  smile  it 
used  to  wear,  and,  advancing,  he  stretched  himself  in  a 
chair.  He  was  Chilon — the  old  Chilon  again. 

But  at  the  same  time,  his  approach  towards  the  light 
had  revealed  the  lines,  the  changes  which  to  her  were 
autobiographies.  She  read  as  by  a  flash-light  of  long 
years  of  abandonment,  of  neglect,  of  heartlessness,  of  dis- 
sipation. She  read  also  no  good  purpose  in  this  home 
coming,  no  honorable  return.  It  was  not  so,  that  her 
brother  should  come — in  the  night,  soiled  and  ruffled  and 
in  disguise.  Alarmed  and  shocked,  her  heart  was  in 
arms  against  him  at  once. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  a  strange  greeting,  considering 
that  this  is  our  first  meeting  in  seventeen  years." 

His  action,  the  easy  nonchalance  of  his  manner,  for 
some  reason,  intensified  Celeste's  excitement.  She  glided 
across  the  room,  and  by  a  swift  motion  closed  the  door  of 
the  other  apartment.  Then,  with  her  hand  over  her 
heart,  she  came  back  slowly  to  her  chair,  and  stood  by  it. 

He  surveyed  her  bitterly,  in  silence,  as  she  struggled  for 
self-possession.  Not  a  word  of  welcome,  no  touch  of 
hands,  even !  She  turned  her  face  to  his,  and  he  saw  that 
it  was  full  of  fear  and  distress,  and  that  she  was  still 
trembling. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  in  genuine  surprise.  "What  is' 
troubling  you  so?" 

With  a  supreme  effort,  she  replied : 

"I  thought — you — were  dead."     And  then,  in  a  voice 


244  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

full  of  agony,  "Oh,  Chilon,  Chilon!  why  have  you  come 
back?  Why  have  you  come  back?" 

His  amazement  increased. 

"Why?  Well,  why  should  I  not  come  back?  Do  you 
know  of  any  reason?  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should 
not  come?" 

And  then,  more  gently: 

"It  may  be  that  I  have  come  back  to  see  Lena — my 
wife.  And,  Celeste,  I  have  come  as  soon  as  circum- 
stances would  permit.  Is  there  anything  in  a  man's  com- 
ing back  to  his  wife  after  a  long  absence  to  call  for  sup- 
posing and  heroics?" 

Celeste  regarded  him  in  amazement. 

"Your  wife!     To  see  your  wife?" 

"Why  not?  She  is,  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  my  wife !  It 
has  been  many  years,  but  I  have  come  at  last.  I  have 
come  to  you  first —  She  shuddered  and  turned  away. 
Her  sufferings  began  to  affect  him.  He  leaned  back,  and 
presently,  in  a  vain  effort  to  conceal  his  fejelings,  rolled  a 
cigarette  and  touched  it  to  the  candle.  Celeste  had  hid- 
den her  face  in  her  hands;  he  waited  for  her  to  speak.  As 
thus  he  sat,  his  eyes  took  in  the  furnishings  of  the  little 
room.  Many  articles  were  familiar  and  suggestive  of  the 
unchanging  conditions  of  the  woman's  life;  the  little 
clock  that  had  been  his  mother's,  the  quaint  vases,  the 
few  prints  upon  the  wall.  Among  these  he  found  a  little 
photograph  of  himself  as  a  young  man,  holding  her  in- 
fant, taken  by  a  strolling  artist  in  the  olden  days.  As  he 
studied  it,  the  smoke  disappeared  from  his  mouth  and  the 
spark  on  the  cigarette  in  the  hand  resting  carelessly  upon 
the  table  vanished  in  the  gray  ash. 

"Your  child,"  he  said,  gently,  "where  is  your  child?" 
She  shuddered,  but  did  not  look  up. 

"In  there,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper.  The  effort  was  pain- 
ful. He  could  not  guess  her  trouble,  but  he  would  calm 
her  by  forcing  the  conversation  in  that  direction.  Talk 


THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG.  245 

to  mothers  of  their  children ;  he  remembered  the  aphor- 
ism. 

"Was  it  a  boy  or  girl — let  me  see;  I  have  forgotten?'' 
She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

"A  boy,"  she  said  at  length,  "a  boy."  Her  words  were 
just  audible.  She  was  trembling  violently. 

"Celeste,"  he  continued,  "what  is  the  matter  with  you? 
I  do  not  see  why  my  presence  should  cause  all  this  display 
of  emotion.  I  came  to  you  because — well,  because  I  am 
in  despair,  and  I  had  reason  to  believe  you  would  still 
love  your  only  brother — your  nearest  relative.  I  came 
to  you  for  information,  because  I  knew  you  were  Lena's 
friend,  and  would  know  of  her  condition  now.  I  have 
just  heard — I  have  been  told — there  is  no  cause  of  alarm!" 
He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  face  an  instant  and  looked 
away.  Celeste  was  now  unable  to  keep  her  seat  She 
stood  up  suddenly,  something  of  terror  in  her  own  eyes. 
She  had  misunderstood,  and,  bounding  past  him,  placed 
her  back  against  the  dividing  door.  He  watched  her  with 
undisguised  astonishment.  What  was  in  that  room? 
Why  should  she  guard  the  door?  Bewildered,  his  gaze 
wandered  about  him  once  more.  Again  it  fell  upon  the 
little  photograph.  He  looked  from  it  back  to  her.  Some- 
thing told  him  the  connection  was  there. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "it  was  a  girl."  And  then,  pres- 
ently; "Why,  Celeste,  it  was  a  girl!  You  named  her 
Eloise  for  mother!  Why!  what  is  the  matter?"  She  was 
just  able  to  keep  erect.  Their  eyes  met.  An  idea  never 
before  entertained  leaped  into  his  mind  along  the  hidden 
lines,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  it  dawn  upon  him. 

He  came  to  her  quickly,  white  with  excitement.  His 
grasp,  his  passion,  hurt  her.  The  cry  that  escaped  from 
her  lips  was  a  wordless  expression  of  agony,  mental  and 
physical.  It  was,  too,  a  confession. 

But  what  a  paradox  is  the  woman  heart!  The  cry  of 
despair  was  instantly  followed  by  calmness.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  suddenly  emerged  into  a  new  light,  a  new 


246  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

scene.  She  was  no  hypocrite;  she  could  not  dissemble; 
but  she  had  blood  within  her  that  could  fight. 

The  long-dreaded  hour  had  come,  and  she  had  a  wea- 
pon. She  did  not  recognize  his  claim.  He  had  been 
neither  husband  nor  father,  and  the  child  was  hers.  She 
had  raised  it,  had  nested  it  in  a  motherhood  as  broad  and 
as  deep  as  love  extends.  As  she  had  guarded  it  in  the 
past,  so  would  she  now,  and  in  the  future.  It  should  not 
be  torn  from  her.  The  heartlessness,  the  violence  of  the 
man,  although  he  was  her  brother,  was  apparent  in  his 
conduct  to-night.  Should  her  boy,  her  beautiful,  tender, 
delicate  and  sensitive  Chilon,  be  turned  over  to  become  a 
wanderer  with  this  rogue,  this  criminal,  grown  gray  in 
vice  and  dissipation? 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  crowded  tumultuously 
into  her  brain.  He  saw  the  change  come  over  her;  he 
did  not  fully  realize  it,  but  for  the  moment  the  woman  was 
gone  and  a  tigress  stood  guard  above  her  young. 

"Well,"  she  said,  answering  the  unasked  question,  "and 
if  so,  what  of  it?"  Her  face  had  lost  the  youthful  lines; 
its  fullness  of  contour  was  gone;  it  was  square,  almost, 
in  determination  and  cruelty.  The  Austrian  zealot  had 
dawned  upon  a  new  century.  As  they  gazed  into  each 
other's  eyes,  they  seemed  for  a  moment  almost  alike,  one 
a  darker  reproduction  of  the  other.  He  recognized  him- 
self, the  uncompromising  element  of  himself,  in  her,  and 
unconsciously  withdrew  his  grasp.  She  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock,  placed  it  in  her  bosom,  and  went  back  to  her 
seat. 

Chilon  witnessed  this  transformation  with  amazement, 
followed  by  admiration.  But  he  was  dazed  and  uncer- 
tain. 

"It  was  true,  then?"  he  said,  in  a  whisper;  it  all  seemed 
so  strange,  so  awful.  Never  until  then  had  he  fully  real- 
ized the  ruin  he  had  wrought.  She  made  no  reply.  "It 
was  true,  then!"  He  answered  his  own  question  and 


THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG.  247 

looked  upon  her,  the  wonder,  the  astonishment  growing 
as  he  thought. 

"Well,"  said  she,  coldly,  "what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it?  What  of  it?"  And  then,  bitterly:  "A 
man  returns  after  many  years  to  find  himself  a  father,  and 
is  asked  'what  of  it.'  I  came  here  to-night  to  see  you,  to 
talk  of  Lena,  of  whose  illness  I  have  but  recently  been  in- 
formed  "  Celeste  started  violently  and  lifted  her  eyes 

toward  heaven.  She  was  the  only  witness  except  Robert 
— "a  man  without  prospects  particularly  bright,  and  I 
find  myself  a  father,  the  legal  guardian  of  an  heir  to  a  for- 
tune, perhaps."  His  words  and  reckless  manner  crystal- 
ized  her  mood;  she  saw  in  this  chance  speech  an  inten- 
tion he  did  not  entertain.  Her  life  had  been  too  sweet 
and  holy,  too  steadfast,  to  measure  the  weakness,  the  sor- 
row of  his.  Her  whole  manner  showed  her  contempt. 
She  had  suddenly  become  in  point  of  force  as  in  all  things 
else,  the  superior  of  the  man. 

"There  is  no  fortune  for  the  child,"  she  said,  quietly, 
"except  such  as  Robert  and  I  will  leave.  It  is  my  child, 
and  no  one  can  prove  it  is  not  when  I  say  it  is." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"You  would  be  the  witness  when  the  time  comes,"  he 
said,  quietly.  Again  she  misunderstood  him. 

"You  will  hardly  try  that,"  she  replied.  "In  the  first 
place,  the  child  is  really  mine,  placed  in  my  arms  by  its 
mother,  and  all  claims  released.  In  the  second,  I  would 
perjure  myself,  if  necessary;  yes,  if  necessary  to  save  my 
child,  and  if  I  were  put  upon  the  witness  stand,  I  would 
hang  you!"  Poor  Celeste!  It  was  the  agony  of  the 
mother  striking  blindly  at  the  unseen  dangers  of  the  dark ! 

Chilon's  astonishment  was  complete. 

"You  threaten  me!"  he  began;  but  suddenly  his  face 
grew  whiter,  for  she  had  arisen  and  was  looking  down 
upon  him  with  a  terrible  menace  in  her  eyes. 

"Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  history,"  she  said,  with  a 
forced  calmness.  "The  child  you  once  hoped  for,  but 


248  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

deserted  in  advance,  was  born.  There  was  no  way  to  in- 
form you  at  that  time,  for  you  had  also  deserted  its  poor, 
little  loving  mother.  Your  cruelty  proved  her  ruin.  You 
gave  them  a  chance  to  say  you  were  base,  and  Richard 
Marbeau  took  advantage  of  it.  He  deceived  Lena,  and, 
by  working  upon  her  sympathies,  accomplished  his  pur- 
pose and  married  her.  You  know  how  they  deceived  her 
with  the  false  reports  of  your  crime.  The  little  boy's  com- 
ing had  been  concealed.  He  took  the  place  of  my  poor 
little  Eloise " 

"God  in  heaven!  Chilon!"  The  man  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands  a  moment,  and  then  looked  up  quickly. 

"Yes,  Chilon!  We  could  not  make  him  a  criminal's 
son;  and  after  Lena  married  again — when  the  shameful 
deception  practiced  upon  her  became  plain — well,  she 
would  not  go  before  the  world  with  the  child  and  an  ex- 
planation. Besides,  he  was  mine.  It  would  have  killed 
me  to  lose  him!"  She  sobbed  a  moment  and  returned  to 
the  subject  with  renewed  passion. 

"The  time  came  when  you  returned  to  Lena,  bringing 
her  a  new  sorrow.  She  was  happy  for  a  while,  though, 
and  in  her  joy  she  brought  about  a  truce  meeting  between 
uncle  and  me.  She  hoped  for  so  much!  I  arranged  to 
go  to  Ravenswood  to  meet  you  after  that  awful  night, 
and  did  go." 

"You!"  Her  face  in  that  dark  hall  flashed  again  be- 
fore him. 

"Oh,  Chilon!     I  need  not  complete  the  story!" 

"Go  on !     Go  on !    Tell  me  all !" 

"She  gave  me  the  room  across  the  hall  from  your  old 
room,  and  I  was  to  wait  until  she  had  seen  you  and  ob- 
tained your  consent  before  coming  in.  We  were  going 
to  plan  your  life  over  again,  Chilon ;  we  would  have  made 
you  happy!  But  it  was  not  to  be.  While  I  waited,  I 
heard  you  struggling  in  the  hall!  I  heard  a  pistol  shot 
and  that  fearful  cry — and  running  out  I  saw,  framed  in 


THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG.  249 

the  open  window  of  your  room,  the  most  fearful  picture 
a  sister  ever  beheld.  On  the  floor  lay  Richard,  with  blood 
already  pouring  across  it,  and  over  him  were  you  with  a 
knife  in  your  hand!  The  lightning,  which  had  been  al- 
most continuous,  went  out  for  a  moment.  When  it 
flashed  again  you  were  gone,  and  lying  there  was  only 
that  cold  dead  thing  that  had  a  minute  before  been  a  man ; 
while  I,  Celeste  Marbeau — I  who  had  loved  you — oh,  how 
I  have  loved  you, — I  was  sister  to  a  murderer!"  she  stood 
over  him  as  she  uttered  these  last  words,  her  hands  up- 
lifted, her  distorted  face  seeking  to  hold  his. 

Chilon  trusted  himself  to  look  but  once  into  the  accus- 
ing eyes.  He  crept  out  from  under  them  and  picked  up 
his  hat.  He  fingered  this  absently,  almost  with  imbecil- 
ity. Then  he  looked  back  to  her  again.  She  was  touched 
by  the  fearful  face  he  had  turned  upon  her;  but  she  was 
pitiless.  It  was  the  tigress  still  whose  cub  was  threatened. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  panting,  and  pointing  her  finger  at 
him,  "two  of  us  have  carried  the  scene  in  the  memory  for 
these  four  years;  two  of  us  will  carry  it  to  the  grave! 
There  was  another  there  waiting  for  you;  and  she  is  still 
waiting,  waiting  in  the  dark ;  for  the  horror  of  that  deed, 
your  deed,  put  out  the  light  of  her  mind  and  left  her  to 
insanity.  You  would  hardly  recognize  her,  but  the  beau- 
ty of  that  face  survives.  Would  you  like  to  see  it  again? 
Hush!"  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  "Come!  She 
lives  in  the  child, — my  child!  God  confirmed  him  to  me 
for  my  share  in  that  night's  work.  See,  the  door  is  open 
now.  I  will  light  the  way.  You  can  look  into  that  face 
and  maybe  it  will  smile  up  to  you  again,  as  it  used  to  in 
the  old  days.  See,  the  way  is  clear  now!"  She  threw 
open  the  bedroom  door  and  caught  up  the  candle. 

Chilon,  holding  by  the  table,  dazed  and  silent,  was  re- 
garding her  helplessly.  "Come,"  she  urged,  showing  her 
white  teeth  in  a  smile  that  froze  his  blood  again,  "if  you 
are  not  the  murderer  of  his  mother  and  of  Richard  Mar- 


250  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

beau,  you  need  fear  nothing!"     And  then,  vehemently,  "I 
challenge  you  to  look  upon  that  face!'' 

But  her  unanswered  challenge  marked  the  limits  of  her 
rage.  Her  life  had  been  devoted  to  loving  ministry. 
Something  overcame  her,  some  memory,  or  the  immortal 
tenderness  of  womanhood.  Her  fury  died  before  his 
speechless  surrender.  With  a  sudden  revulsion  she  cast 
the  candle  to  the  floor  and  falling  upon  her  knees, 
clasped  her  arms  about  him. 

"Oh,  Chilon !  Chilon !     To  think  that  it  was  you — you 
who  used  to  kneel  with  me — that  it  was  you  who  brought 
about  all  this  ruin,  this  misery;  you  whom  she  loved  and 
trusted,  and  left  home  and  father  for — oh,  Chilon — 
She  broke  down  and  sobbed  piteously. 

The  lighted  candle  was  sputtering  and  dying  upon  the 
floor,  but  the  moon  shining  through  the  window  fell  upon 
his  ashen  face.  His  voice  was  scarcely  audible  when  he 
spoke  again.  It  was  as  a  voice  heard  calling  from  a 
storm. 

"A  murderer!  A  murderer!  A  murderer!  It  is 
known!'' 

He  seemed  to  awake.  Looking  about  him  suddenly 
for  the  woman,  he  found  her  clasping  his  knees.  He  tore 
her  arms  from  him  with  a  strength  she  could  not  defeat, 
and  glided  out  into  the  night.  That  one  word,  the  word 
he  had  repeated,  seemed  to  remain  a  thing  of  form — of 
vision,  of  actual  being  in  the  room.  It  seemed  to  take 
the  man's  place.  When  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
about  her,  she  was  surprised  to  find  him  gone.  Tremb- 
ling, she  arose,  and  tottered  into  the  little  room  and  sank 
on  the  bed,  her  arms  about  the  child.  And  as  if  awaking 
from  a  hideous  dream,  her  terror  left  her.  She  buried 
her  face  by  the  little  sleeper's  in  the  pillow. 

"Chilon,"  she  whispered. 

"What  is  it,  Mamma?" 

"Nothing,  darling.     Go  back  to  sleep,"  and,  slipping  an 


THE  TIGRESS  AND  HER  YOUNG.  251 

arm  about  her  as  she  knelt,  he  slept  again.     So  Robert 
Aubren  found  them  when  he  came. 

She  had  not  seen  the  white  face  of  her  brother  at  the 
window  nor  its  agony,  as,  with  her  arms  about  the  little 
fellow,  she  spoke  his  name. 


252  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
HEART  TO    HEART. 

When  Chilon  left  Rose  Cottage,  he  had  but  one  object 
in  mind;  escape  from  the  accusing  eyes  and  lips  of  his 
sister.  The  realization  that  she  had  been  a  witness  of  the 
tragedy  at  Ravenswood,  and  that  to  her  he  was  simply  an 
assassin,  and,  as  such,  forever  an  outcast,  came  with  re- 
sistless force.  The  subject  had  long  since  been  put  aside; 
he  had  explained  to,  had  forgiven  himself.  He  knew 
that  except  for  the  fatal  resolution  which  had  in  his  mo- 
ment of  irresponsibility  arisen  and  taken  possession  of 
him,  he  was  guiltless.  And  the  resolution  itself  was  hu- 
man. What  man  would  have  rested  under  such  wrongs? 
Now,  two  people  shared  this  secret  with  him,  two  from 
whose  minds  he  might  never  hope  to  explain  away  the 
fearful  fact  of  the  death.  One  had  accused  and  denounced 
him ;  and  the  other? —  He  stopped  in  his  wild  flight,  and 
threw  himself  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  burying  his  face 
in  his  hands  to  shut  out  the  memory  that  came  to  him. 
He  had  destroyed  with  Richard's  life  the  mind  of  his  wife. 
Was  not  that  what  Lena  said?  It  was  true.  She  had 
gazed  upon  him  from  the  parlor  door,  and  the  sight  of 
him  had  evidently  revived  the  horrors  of  that  night. 

There  is  a  limit  to  the  powers  of  misfortune.  The  mind 
finds  at  last  a  refuge  in  inability  to  receive  impressions. 
If  it  does  not  give  way  it  staggers  blindly  beneath  its 
weight,  seeing,  hearing,  accepting  nothing  until  it 
had  adjusted  its  burden  anew.  And  so  with  the 
self-convicted  man  that  night  in  the  wilds  of 
Ravenswood.  Dimly,  as  he  waited,  almost  in  awe,  for 
doubts  of  his  own  sanity  had  thrilled  him,  the  facts  of  his 
life  came  out  of  the  shadows  and  confronted  him.  He 
was  a  murderer,  and  Lena  was  crazed.  She  had  had  but 
one  chance;  she  was  to  be  confronted  with  the  lover- 


HEART  TO   HEART.  253 

husband  of  her  earlier  youth,  and  if  there  was  no  revulsion 
strong  enough  to  set  up  again  the  landmarks  for  her 
mind,  it  would  wander  forever.  This  was  her  chance. 
It  had  failed.  To  her  in  the  one  brief  moment  as  she 
stood  at  the  door,  he  had  returned,  not,  however,  in  the 
halo  of  the  sweet  old  romance,  but  cloaked  in  a  tragedy 
too  fearful  for  contemplation.  What,  then,  was  left  for 
him  at  Ravenswood!  What  in  all  the  world! 

His  mind,  grown  calmer,  reverted  to  that  closed  and 
silent  room  at  Rose  Cottage.  His  son  was  there;  her 
son!  The  thought  moved  him  with  a  sudden  joy.  He 
was  not  to  be  alone  forever.  How  he  would  work  for, 
plan  for,  live  for  Lena's  boy!  He  should  never  know 
what  horrors  lurked  in  his  father's  past.  He  would  take 
him  away,  far  beyond  the  reach  of  old  associations,  and 
teach  him — what?  The  wretched  man  sank  back  again 
to  the  sod,  from  which  in  his  excitement  he  was  rising. 
He  was  a  convict,  an  assassin!  There  was  no  escape 
from  fate.  Where  next?  Where  turn  for  safety?  For 
murder  will  sometimes  out!  The  large  reward  was  still 
standing.  It  came  to  him  then  that  the  prison  from 
which  he  had  fled  was  a  refuge.  In  comparison,  its  old 
life,  with  no  responsibilities,  seemed  sweet  and  restful. 
The  world  outside  was  dead  to  him;  the  prison  was  his 
best  home. 

But  Garner!  Instantly  with  that  name  his  soul  arose 
in  rebellion.  It  was  once  more  the  saving  stimulus. 

It  was  midnight  and  the  moon's  broad  disc  now  over- 
hung the  scene.  Into  the  shrill  chorus  of  the  crickets  and 
the  monotone  of  the  dewdrops  from  the  leaves,  there 
came  a  sudden  hush,  and  then  the  slow  sweep  of  garments 
upon  the  grass.  He  saw,  standing  near  him,  a  woman, 
her  white  gown  in  reach  of  his  hand.  Was  it  some 
wraith,  some  phantom  from  a  disordered  mind?  Who 
could  come  to  him  in  that  lonely  place  but  the  ghost  of 
one  of  those  dead  friends  he  had  helped  to  slay,  waked 
from  her  grave  in  the  fields  of  memory  by  the  conflict 


254  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

about  her?  He  reached  out  his  hand  and  touched  the 
garment.  It  was  soft  and  yielding.  Still  holding  to  it  he 
lifted  his  eyes  slowly,  fearfully,  until  they  rested  upon  her 
hand.  It  clasped  a  letter.  With  the  other  she  was 
searching  the  depths  of  a  hollow  in  the  tree;  and  then  his 
eager  face  was  lifted  higher,  and  he  saw  the  pensive 
beauty  of  hers  lit  by  the  splendor  of  the  moon.  He 
reached  forth  and  touched  her  hand,  as  he  would  have 
touched  a  lily. 

"Lena!"  She  did  not  start  or  withdraw  from  him,  but 
cast  her  eyes  downward,  as,  kneeling,  he  leaned  from  the 
shadow  of  the  tree  and  pressed  his  hot  lips  upon  her  hand. 

"At  last,  Chilon;  you  have  come  at  last!" 

"At  last!"  His  frame  shook  with  the  sobs  he  could 
not  restrain  at  sound  of  her  voice. 

"It  has  been  long;  oh,  so  long,  Chilon!  You  should 
not  have  treated  me  so.  It  was  cruel.  I  loved  you  too 
well  to  have  been  treated  so!"  Her  mind  had  lost  the 
memory  of  its  horror,  but  it  might  return  at  any  moment. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I,  too,  have  suffered,  Lena.  God  alone 
knows  how  I  have  suffered!"  She  rested  her  free  hand 
upon  his  head. 

"Your  hair,  it  used  to  be  black.  Why  is  it  changed  so?" 
Her  soft  fingers  lifted  the  locks  gently  and  stroked  them 
into  place  again.  "It  is  true;  you  must  have  suffered. 
And  yet  suffering  doesn't  always  destroy.  Look  how 
mine  holds  its  blackness.  Not  a  thread  of  white!"  She 
took  her  hair  in  both  hands,  held  it  out  at  arms'  length, 
right  and  left,  and  released  it  slowly.  It  fell  behind  her 
out  of  the  moonlight  like  an  escaping  shadow.  "You 
once  thought  it  beautiful,  Chilon!"  Awed  by  her  ap- 
pearance, and  the  solemnity  of  this  contact  with  insanity, 
the  man  arose  and  stood  looking  upon  her.  She  laid 
both  white  arms  upon  his  shoulders  and  placed  her  face 
near  his.  He  could  only  fold  his  arms  about  her  in  si- 
lence and  struggle  to  restrain  himself.  Any  excitement 


HEART  TO   HEART.  255 

might  be  fatal.  She  seemed  to  be  searching  his  face  for 
a  record. 

"It  is  you,  and  not  you,"  she  said,  puzzled. 

"It  is  I,  Chilon.  Time  has  left  its  mark,  but  it  is  the 
same  Chilon  that  has  always  loved  you,  Lena!'' 

"Loved  me!  You  do  love  me!  You  will  never  love 
any  one  but  Lena!  I  had  a  dream  last  night,  Chilon, 
such  a  dream !  I  thought  you  came  back  and  sang  to  me, 
sang  the  old  songs  we  loved  so;  but  when  I  looked  for 
you  I  saw  not  you,  but  some  one  else  there  at  the  organ. 
I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  dear.  You  know  that  I  am 
not  always  myself,  my  mind  is  sometimes  confused,  and 
I  imagine  such  awful  things !" 

"Hush,"  he  said,  quickly,  fearing  that  her  excitement 
was  returning.  "Don't  think  of  them  to-night.  Put 
away  all  troubles  and  let  us  talk  of  the  happy  days." 

"Happy  days!"  she  laughed  softly.  "Do  you  remem- 
ber, Chilon,  the  day  I  came  from  school,  and  you  met  me; 
how  we  rode  together  from  the  city,  and  as  we  entered 
under  the  arch,  you  kissed  me  and  said,  'Welcome  again 
to  Ravens  wood?'  That  was  a  happy  day.  Happy?  Ah, 
Chilon,  Chilon,  there  is  a  happy  day  coming  for  you, 
too!" 

"For  me,  Lena?    Never,  never  again  for  me!" 

"What!  Come,  follow  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing that  will  make  you  happy,  Chilon.  Come!  come! 
come!''  She  glided  away,  lifting  her  skirts  from  the 
leaves,  and  beckoning  eagerly. 

"Lena,  be  careful ! " 

"Come!  come!  come!"  She  eluded  his  grasp,  and  he 
could  but  follow,  distressed  and  fearful.  Once  she  waited 
with  her  finger  upon  her  lips,  a  hand  outstretched  toward 
him. 

"No,  not  here,"  she  said.  "No  one  must  know,  no  one 
but  you,  Chilon!"  She  passed  on  quickly  down  to  the 
lake,  he  following  her  light,  sure  footsteps  until  the  water 


256  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

was  reached  and  she  entered  a  little  boat.  Reasoning  was 
of  no  avail.  He  tried  persuasion.  She  was  obstinate. 

"I  must;  I  must,"  she  said;  "don't  vex  me,  Chilon, 
when  I  am  going  to  make  you  happy!  You  will  be  hap- 
py, dear,  will  you  not?" 

"Yes,  Lena.  It  is  happiness  to  be  with  you!''  Happi- 
ness! 

She  had  the  paddle,  and  with  something  of  her  old 
skill  and  ease,  sent  the  boat  gliding  through  the  lily  pads 
and  moss  far  out,  and  up  the  lake;  and  ever  as  she  dipped 
the  blade  she  sang  softly  a  lullaby,  keeping  time  with  her 
task.  Her  voice  rose  sweetly  in  the  night,  wailed  and 
died  away,  and  the  paddle  slipped  from  her  Hand  and  float- 
ed off,  unheeded.  She  stood  up;  the  frail  craft  rocked 
dangerously  a  moment,  but  it  did  not  alarm  her! 

"Hark!"  she  said,  "did  you  not  hear  him  cry?" 

"Lena,  Lena!     Of  whom  are  you  talking?" 

"My  baby,  my  poor  little  baby,"  she  said,  twisting  her 
fingers  together  nervously.  "Oh,  you  did  not  know, 
Chilon !  Chilon !"  She  threw  herself  down  at  his  feet,  and 
buried  her  face  in  his  lap. 

"You  never  told  me!"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "you  never 
told  me!" 

"How  could  I?  You  never  came,  you  never  came! 
Oh,  Chilon !  he  was  a  beautiful  child,  and  I  named  him  for 
you;  nobody  ever  knew  but  Celeste.  I  gave  him  to  Ce- 
leste— good,  loving,  beautiful  Celeste.  And  so  I  lost 
him.  I  don't  know,  I  can't  remember  why  I  lost  him. 
They  told  me  I  must,  and  Celeste  was  so  sweet  and  true. 
But  now  he  is  gone!  Oh,  Chilon,  my  love,  my  life,  save 
me  from  myself!  save  my  child!  Bring  back  my  heart, 
my  brain,  my  soul!  Everything  is  drifting  away  from 
me!  I  do  not  see  anything  but  you;  but  you  and  the 
dear  God's  stars!"  She  was  almost  beyond  control  as  she 
trembled  in  his  arms. 

"Listen,"  he  said  at  last,  in  desperation.  "I  have  seen 
him!" 


HEART  TO    HEART.  257 

"You!  You  have  seen  him?  Why,  Chilon,  how  could 
you  have  seen  my  boy,  my  beautiful  boy?" 

"To-night  I  went  to  Celeste,  and  we  talked  of  the  past, 
Lena,  and  of  you.  We  talked  of  the  good  old  days  when 
we  were  children  in  these  woods  and  upon  these  waters." 

He  turned  away  his  face,  overcome  by  the  remem- 
brance of  the  real  scene. 

"Well " 

"And  she  told  me  all.  Then  I  went  and  stood  above 
his  bedside, — little  Chilon's,  and  knew  she  spoke  the 
truth."  The  woman  clasped  her  hands,  and  leaned  for- 
ward. 

"You  saw  him!  He  was  well?  He  did  not  lack  any- 
thing? He  did  not  call  for  me?" 

"He  dreamed  of  you,  I  think,  for,  as  we  stood  he  stirred, 
a  smile  came  upon  his  face,  and  I  heard  him  whisper 
'Mamma.'  " 

"Did  he?  did  he?"  she  exclaimed  in  an  ecstacy  of  emo- 
tion. "My  boy  has  not  forgotten — my  boy  has  not  for- 
gotten me!  Bless  you,  Chilon,  for  those  words.  God 
bless  and  love  and  keep  you,  dear,  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand  for  the  mercy,  the  tenderness,  the  beauty  of  those 
words !" 

She  was  upon  her  knees  with  her  arms  about  him,  her 
emotion  swaying  them  both. 

Chilon  sat  with  the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks, 
too  deeply  moved  to  speak.  He  pressed  her  in  his  arms 
and  gradually,  by  touch  of  hair  and  cheek,  and  mute 
caress  of  her  drooping  eyelids,  he  calmed  her  excite- 
ment. Presently  she  lay  still  in  his  arms,  and  relaxing 
them,  her  white  face  was  revealed  as  carven  marble  in 
the  strong,  soft  light  of  the  moon. 

A  faint  breeze  was  drifting  the  boat.  He  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  hour  and  held  her  until  it  found  a  grassy 
harbor.  He  stepped  forth  then,  and  bore  her  toward  the 
house.  But  at  the  edge  of  the  grove  he  stopped  and 
gazed  upon  that  pale  sweet  face.  Would  he  ever  in  this 

17 


258  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

life  behold  it  again?  Perhaps  not.  It  were  better  not! 
Kneeling  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  hers,  and  then  a  moment  rested  his  cheeks  against 
the  whiteness  of  her  brow.  No  word  was  spoken,  but 
in  that  moment  his  soul  had  said  farewell. 

The  house  was  still.  In  an  upper  room  burned  a 
shaded  light.  Rising,  he  went  in  through  the  window  of 
his  room,  up-stairs  to  her  well  known  room,  pushed 
open  the  door  and  entered.  No  one  was  within.  The 
attendant's  couch  was  there  but  had  not  been  disturbed. 
He  placed  the  sleeping  woman  upon  the  bed,  removed 
the  damp  slippers  from  her  feet  and  gently  withdrew. 

But  at  the  head  of  the  stair,  the  strangeness  of  it  all 
forced  itself  back  upon  him.  What  should  he  do?  Was 
Lena  safe?  Should  he  not  inform  his  uncle? 

A  ray  of  light  rested  upon  the  wall  near  at  hand.  It 
streamed  from  the  keyhole  of  the  ballroom. 

Chilon  went  to  his  room  and  gave  himself  up  to 
thought.  Events  and  emotions  had  crowded  upon  him 
swiftly  and  left  him  in  confusion.  It  was  difficult  for 
him  to  realize  that  his  meetings  with  Celeste  and  Lena 
had  been  real;  that  the  climax  of  long  years  of  waiting 
and  planning  had  come  and  there  was  now  nothing  left 
for  him  but  flight,  silence  and  exile.  The  end  was  at 
hand. 

His  mind  reverted  to  that  inanimate  form  upstairs,  his 
sleeping  wife.  He  thought  of  her  always  as  his  wife. 
Was  she  still  sleeping,  and  had  that  strange  dark  woman 
returned?  Where  was  she?  Ah!  The  ray  of  light!  And 
the  plates  must  be  secured! 

And  so  his  mind  came  back  to  the  demands  of  life.  He 
arose  and  went  softly  up  to  Lena's  room.  The  door  was 
still  ajar.  He  looked  .in.  She  still  slept.  The  couch  was 
still  undisturbed.  And  then  he  went  softly  to  the  ball 
room  door  and  listened.  He  could  hear  no  sound. 
Alien,  stranger,  fugitive  though  he  was,  yet  he  was  in 
his  uncle's  house.  No  one  had  a  right  to  be  in  that 
room  at  such  an  hour  but  his  uncle,  and  his  own  duty 


HEART  TO   HEART.  259 

was  plain.  Bending,  he  looked  through  the  keyhole. 
Seated  in  front  of  the  old  desk,  seemingly  examining 
the  papers  thereof,  her  profile  clearly  revealed,  was  the 
mulatto  woman.  Chilon  drew  back  amazed  and  alarmed. 
A  sense,  a  thrill  of  a  threatening  danger  came  to  him. 
Indignant  he  stood,  and  uncertain.  The  intrusion  of  a 
menial  into  the  papers  of  his  uncle  Gaston,  the  neglect 
of  Lena,  called  for  action,  but  how  could  he  act  without 
betrayal  of  himself?  In  the  eyes  of  the  household  what 
business  had  he  to  be  wandering  about  upstairs  after 
midnight,  or  at  any  time?  There  was  one  thing  he 
might  do.  He  might  wait  and  perchance  see  what  she 
brought  from  that  room.  Posting  himself  in  the  dark- 
ness below,  and  yet  within  easy  reach  of  his  own  room,  he 
stood  on  guard.  Just  before  break  of  day  the  ray  of  light 
disappeared.  He  heard  the  door  open  and  faint  footfalls, 
with  the  swish  of  a  woman's  garments.  She  had  passed 
out  in  the  dark.  He  heard  the  closing  of  another  door 
— Lena's  he  judged;  then  came  silence.  But  just  as 
he  was  entering  his  own  room  baffled,  again  the  light 
flashed  in  the  hall.  The  dark  woman  came  down  the 
steps  as  though  searching  for  something.  In  her  hand 
she  held  one  of  Lena's  slippers.  She  touched  a  mud 
stain  on  the  carpet  with  her  finger,  and  seemingly  satis- 
fied, returned,  and  all  was  still  again. 

The  indefinable  apprehension  continued.  He  had 
never  felt  it  except  when  danger  threatened  him  or  some 
one  in  sympathy  with  him.  What  was  it  now?  Was 
there  some  one  near  him  in  the  hall,  or  was  Lena  in 
danger?  The  moonlight  was  visible  through  the  front 
door's  side  glasses.  Had  anyone  passed  between  him 
and  them  he  would  have  known  it.  Slipping  off  his 
shoes,  he  went  rapidly  up  the  stairs.  The  ball  room  was 
locked.  He  listened  at  Lena's  door;  there  was  a  con- 
fused murmur  of  voices,  and  it  seemed  to  him  he  could 
hear  Lena's  in  pleading  tones.  For  the  second  time  in 
his  life  he  found  a  chair  and,  standing  upon  it  looked 
through  the  transom.  Lena  lay  in  bed,  but  she  had  half 


260  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

raised  herself  upon  one  elbow.  Her  face  was  not  entire- 
ly visible,  but  her  manner  was  that  of  a  person  con- 
trolled by  fear  and  mental  agony.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  face  of  the  mulatto.  This  woman  stood  front- 
ing the  door,  her  every  feature  distinct  in  the  light  of 
the  lamp  that  she  held.  She  was  pressing  upon  her  re- 
cumbent patient  a  glass  half  filled  with  black  liquid,  her 
whole  interest  and  attention  fixed  upon  the  upturned 
face.  The  scene  was  a  striking  one,  but  connecting  itself 
as  it  did  instantly  with  a  memory,  to  Chilon  it  was  in- 
tensely vivid.  In  this  memory,  the  woman  with  the  black 
draught  took  the  place  of  Silvy,  and  the  pleading,  shrink- 
ing form  in  the  bed  was  his  own.  He  looked  again  into 
the  mulatto's  face,  fascinated.  The  sick  woman  shrank 
in  horror  from  the  dose — physical  nature,  overruled, 
overwhelmed  as  it  was,  in  her  being,  shrank  and  protested 
with  all  its  power  against — what?  Something  utterly  at 
war  with  it.  But  mere  physical  nature  submitted  to  a 
power  exerted  through  a  perverted  reason.  The  king 
was  dead,  but  habit  sat  on  his  throne.  Chilon  knew  what 
would  follow :  the  fragile  form  upon  the  bed  would  shiver 
and  be  convulsed,  the  face  would  turn  away  sickened  and 
distorted;  but  at  last  the  hand  would  arise  obedient  to  the 
will  of  the  woman  who  stood,  and  receive  the  drink.  So 
it  had  been  with  him;  and  so  it  would  be  with  the  sick 
woman.  Then  into  her  mind,  as  she  slept,  would  come 
fancies  and  visions.  Hallucinations  would  distress  and 
tumult — yes,  that  was  how  it  had  been  with  him — always. 
And  when  the  woman  had  subdued  her  to  a  mere  autom- 
aton, she  would  put  her  finger  on  some  old  resolution, 
hidden  away  in  her  brain  cells  and  awake  it  to  life  and 
revenge. 

He  shook  his  head  angrily  that  his  mind  should  so  out- 
run his  judgment  at  such  a  time  and  in  the  presence  of 
such  a  scene.  Lena  was  sick  with  a  nervous  malady. 
The  woman  was  her  nurse  and  attendant  and  must  per- 
force administer  medicines.  He  was  preparing  to  with- 
draw from  his  position  when  he  received  a  shock  that 


HEART  TO   HEART.  261 

almost  caused  him  to  lose  his  hold;  Lena,  on  the  bed,  fell 
back,  tossed  her  arms  feebly  and  lay  throwing  her  head 
from  side  to  side;  but  the  mulatto  woman,  relaxing  her 
fixed  gaze,  looked  down  upon  her,  laughing  silently.  The 
wretched  man,  his  blood  chilling  in  his  veins,  and  covered 
with  a  cold  perspiration,  descended,  trembling,  from  his 
chair  and  crept  down  to  his  room.  He  locked  the  door 
and  lit  his  lamp.  Seating  himself,  he  looked  fearfully 
about  him.  One  word  had  flashed  into  his  mind  and  lay 
at  the  base  of  this  new  mood.  The  word  was  "poison." 

And  then  began  a  mental  struggle  that  was  to  continue 
for  many  hours.  Why  should  this  strange  woman  at- 
tempt the  destruction  of  Lena  Marbeau?  She  was  a 
skilled  and  trained  nurse,  probably  engaged  at  large  ex- 
pense. There  was  positively  no  grounds  for  suspicion. 
And  yet  why  should  the  sad  scene  he  had  witnessed  bring 
a  smile,  a  flash  of  triumph,  of  pleasure,  to  her  face? 

There  was  something  dark  and  mysterious  in  the  situa- 
tion; but  he  was  powerless.  It  flashed  upon  him,  too, 
again,  that  the  strain  upon  his  mind  might  have  unbal- 
anced it  for  the  time  being.  After  all,  was  it  a  smile,  a 
silent  laugh  upon  the  old  woman's  face?  He  had  seen 
persons  administer  medicines  and  unconsciously  imitate 
the  gagging  and  choking  of  their  patients.  That  was 
the  explanation. 

But  yet!     And  so  the  mental  battle  went  on. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Colonel  Marbeau  at  breakfast,  "you 
will  pardon  me,  but  your  insomnia  is  playing  havoc  with 
you.  Is  there  anything  I  can  suggest? — ' 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  The  fact  is,  I  thought  the  quiet 
would  affect  me  pleasantly.  It  has  the  opposite  effect. 
If  you  had  a  few  busses  to  run  up  and  down  the  road, 
some  street  cars  and  a  lot  of  people  to  tramp  around, 
perhaps  it  would  help."  Chilon  forced  a  smile  to  ac- 
company this. 

The  colonel  was  interested. 

"I  can  arrange  it,  if  noise  is  all  you  wish;  I  think  a  cou- 
ple of  wagons  outside; — but  that  will  not  do.  Quiet  is 


262  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

absolutely  necessary,  Mr.  Underbill,  I  had  forgotten." 
The  old  gentleman's  sadness  returned.  "You  under- 
stand?" 

"Perfectly."  And  then,  after  an  awkward  silence: 
"Colonel,  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  question,  but  am  afraid  you 
will  think  me  intrusive;  still  if, — " 

"Proceed,  sir.    I  will  determine  afterwards." 

"This  nurse  who  has  charge  of, — the  lady;  is  she  a 
foreigner?" 

"She  came  back  with  her  from  England, — yes."  Col- 
onel Marbeau  looked  curiously  at  his  guest. 

"And  this — insanity;  is  it  persistent, — no  lucid  inter- 
vals? I  do  not  question  from  idle  curiosity,  but  you  have 
given  me  a  great  problem,  and  the  answer  may  come 
from  things  overlooked,  perhaps." 

"There  are  not  exactly  lucid  intervals,  I  think ;  but  there 
are  times  when  my  child  seems  clearer.  That  is  all!'' 

"When  you  took  her  abroad  was  she  this  way?" 

"No;  or  else  it  was  in  the  earlier  stages.  She  was  very 
nervous  and  suffered  from  indigestion  and  insomnia.  All 
physicians  advised  a  trip  abroad.  We  went  to  England 
and  to  my  brother's.  It  was  there  we  engaged  this 
nurse." 

"And  then  she  grew  worse?" 

"Yes." 

"So  much  so  that  you  had  to  bring  the  woman  with  her 
when  you  came  back?" 

"Yes!  yes!" 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  history  of  the  woman?" 

"Well,  sir!  well,  sir!  what  else?"  The  colonel  arose 
impatiently, — but  instantly  his  mood  changed.  He 
turned  quickly  and  offered  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Underbill,  I  am  an  old  man!  Nothing  more 
should  be  necessary  in  the  way  of  apologies.  We  all 
have  our  weaknesses.  No  man  before  ever  asked  me 
three  questions  about  my  family  affairs  in  succession  and 
got  a  polite  answer  to  the  last,  and  I  have  answered  a 


HEART  TO    HEART.  263 

dozen  for  you.  Come,  let's  go  out  and  smoke!"  Chilon 
shook  the  proffered  hand  and  bowed  gravely. 

"Enough,  Colonel,"  he  said,  "but  if  you  knew  why  I 
asked  the  questions  you  would  forgive  them,  I  am  sure, 
and  answer  them!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"If  I  answer  that  you  will  ask  a  more  difficult  one;  but 
if  you  will  be  content  to  wait  before  asking  the  second 
until  the  day  I  leave  you,  I  shall  answer  it." 

"It  is  agreed." 

"Then,"  said  Chilon,  earnestly,  "as  I  stand  before  you 
and  must  some  day  stand  before  my  Maker,  I  believe  that 
were  your  daughter  taken  from  the  company  of  the 
mulatto  woman,  she  would  recover." 

"Why—" 

"I  may  not  answer  that; — and  you  were  not  to  ask." 

"It  is  impossible,  impossible,  im — "  The  word  grew 
fainter  and  fainter  upon  the  ofd  man's  lips.  Chilon  had 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  veranda  to  avoid  the  difficulty 
pending.  When  he  turned,  Colonel  Marbeau,  supporting 
himself  with  a  chair,  was  looking  toward  him,  his  face 
pale  and  drawn. 

"Well!"  he  said.  His  companion's  lips  moved  but 
made  no  sound. 


264  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
NATURE'S  CLARION  CALL. 

The  two  men  avoided  each  other  that  day.  Some  sat- 
isfactory course  of  reasoning  restored  Colonel  Marbeau's 
equilibrium,  if  not  his  peace  of  mind.  He  was  quiet,  but 
thoughtful  and  watchful,  going  several  times  to  the  room 
upstairs,  a  proceeding  so  unusual  that  it  attracted  every 
one's  attention.  He  returned  each  time  more  assured. 

Chilon  gave  himself  up  to  the  woods,  seeking  quiet  for 
his  nerves  and  mind.  How  could  he  secure  those  plates, 
to  him  so  vital?  He  would  not  go  without  them,  and  go 
he  must. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  he  came  upon  little  Lena  and  the 
boy.  Below  the  dam,  the  sun  was  shining  through  the 
spray  where  the  waters  going  over  made  a  rainbow;  and 
there  they  were  wisely  settling  the  philosophy  of  the  phe- 
nomenon to  suit  themselves.  They  greeted  him,  the 
girl,  with  a  smiling  face,  but  her  companion  with  a  gravity 
that  was  almost  embarrassing.  Upon  him,  Chilon  gazed 
with  profound  emotion  and  sadness.  He  read  confirm- 
ation of  the  truth  that  had  been  told.  Indeed  nature  her- 
self on  his  every  outline  and  feature,  in  the  movement 
of  his  limbs  and  the  poise  of  his  head  confessed  to  him. 
For  there  with  himself  he  saw,  blended  so  perfectly  that 
analysis  was  impossible,  the  vision  of  the  past  that  for  so 
many  years  had  haunted  his  dreams.  He  bowed  his 
head  in  silent  depression.  When  he  roused  himself  both 
children  were  regarding  him  intently,  expectantly.  He 
forced  a  smile  and  said: 

"The  sight  of  you,  my  young  friends,  happy  in  each 
other's  company,  recalled  to  mind  scenes  of  my  own 
youth.  I,  too,  was  a  boy  in  the  country  once,  and  my 
best  friend,  the  friend  who  best  loved  me,  was  a  little 
girl, — just  your  size,  Lena.  We  were  very  happy,  very 


NATURE'S  CLARION  CALL.  265 

happy  then."  He  looked  away,  having  said  more  than 
he  intended. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  asked  the  girl. 

"I  lost  her,"  he  said  softly.  "She  passed  out  of  my 
life." 

"Did  you  love  her,  Mr.  Underhill?  You  must  have 
loved  her,  though."  She  was  looking  compassionately 
upon  him  as  she  spoke. 

"Yes.  I  loved  her!"  Chilon  came  and  stood  by  him, 
with  grave,  questioning  eyes  fixed  on  his.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  his  slender  hand  slipped  gently  into  the  man's. 
The  little  action,  the  quick,  pure  sympathy,  almost  lost 
the  man  his  presence  of  mind.  He  restrained  himself, 
and  turned  the  subject. 

"You  were  looking  at  the  rainbow.  Isn't  it  strange  that 
the  ancients  could  ever  have  been  superstitious  about  it 
when  every  waterfall  possessed  one?" 

"You  should  see  this  one  by  moonlight,"  said  the  boy. 
"It  is  then  a  ghost.  The  beautiful  colors  are  faint  and 
all  you  see  clearly  is  the  salmon, — the  colors  in  the  ring 
around  the  moon.  The  vibrations  of  the  other  colors 
are  not  visible." 

"Still  vibration,"  said  Chilon,  smiling,  "you  are  com- 
mitted to  your  subject,  I  see.  Well,  it  is  a  beautiful 
study." 

"Sometimes  it  is  not,"  said  the  boy.  "Vibration  de- 
stroys as  well  as  beautifies.  This  dam  here  has  been  hurt 
by  it.  Where  the  water  falls  on  the  boards  below  the 
gates  there  is  a  trembling  that  has  opened  cracks.  Look 
yonder,  sir,  how  some  of  them  leak.  See  the  bottom 
one;  the  water  there  is  muddy."  The  man  looked  and 
was  instantly  impressed.  Years  had  passed,  but  the  ex- 
perience of  his  own  youth  returned.  He  recognized  in 
that  muddy  jet,  a  serious  and  pressing  danger  to  the  dam. 
The  jets  of  clear  water  escaping  between  the  wood  work 
meant  nothing,  but  muddy  water  boiling  underneath  was 
a  different  matter. 

"That  must  be  seen  to,"  he  said  gravely,  "and  at  once. 


266  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

The  gates  should  be  opened  to  their  fullest  and  the 
pressure  relieved.  Wait  and  I  will  get  help.  Thirty 
minutes  may  cost  the  price  of  a  dam,  to  say  nothing  of 
damage  to  crops  below."  He  looked  with  alarm  at  the 
twelve-foot  head  of  water  pressing  upon  the  weak  spot, 
and  hurried  off  toward  the  house  for  help. 

"Keep  out  of  the  way,"  he  called  back;  "there  is  danger 
below  the  dam." 

The  young  people  stood  aside  and  waited.  The  min- 
utes passed  rapidly  and  with  each  the  boiling  leak  in- 
creased. All  the  clear  water  below  the  dam  was  now  tur- 
bid and  discolored.  The  leak  had  found  a  voice,  too,  and 
disaster  hung  in  the  air. 

"The  gates  must  be  opened,"  said  the  girl  quietly. 
"There  is  no  one  else  to  do  it;  let  us  try,  Chilon!"  He 
drew  her  back  with  quick  and  anxious  protest,  walked 
bravely  out  upon  the  bridge,  and,  adjusting  a  lever,  made 
an  effort  to  lift  a  gate.  It  was  the  work  of  two  men;  he 
could  not  move  it.  He  was  looking  about  for  a  longer 
lever,  when  without  warning,  the  wood  work  which 
blocked  the  thirty-foot  opening  gave  way.  The  great 
beams  and  timbers  plunged  downward,  ripping  and 
crashing,  standing  on  end  or  thrown  back  into  the  air; 
and  Chilon  disappeared  in  the  wreck.  The  man  return- 
ing upon  the  run,  stood  for  a  moment  opposite  the  little 
girl,  their  faces  white  as  death,  the  tumultuous  flood  pour- 
ing between  them.  Their  lips  moved,  but  made  no  sound 
that  was  audible  above  the  roar  of  the  flood.  She  knelt 
in  agony  and  tears,  and  pointed  down  the  valley,  and 
looking  there,  the  man  saw  a  forest  of  small  gums  a  hun- 
dred yards  away  bending  and  dipping  as  the  flood  roared 
among  them;  and  clinging  there  bravely,  mutely,  des- 
perately, the  slender  lad.  For  the  first  time  he  heard 
within  him  that  clarion  call  of  nature,  never  sounded 
except  when  danger  threatens  an  offspring.  It  was  a 
new,  a  wild  alarm!  He  did  not  cry  out;  he  cast  himself 
into  the  flood  and  passing  grasped  his  son.  The  shock 
broke  his  frail  hold  and  man  and  boy  went  down  the 


NATURE'S  CLARION  CALL.  267 

black  valley  together.  What  happened  in  that  frightful 
journey  he  never  knew.  When  consciousness  came  back 
to  him  he  was  kneeling  in  the  mud  and  debris,  gazing 
helplessly  into  the  boy's  face,  over  which  the  blood  was 
pouring  from  a  temple  wound.  The  negroes  came  run- 
ning to  his  help  and  then  he  saw  the  little  girl  bending, 
awestruck  and  remorseful,  above  her  companion,  but 
calmly  and  with  the  deliberation  of  a  hospital  nurse,  bind- 
ing up  the  wound  with  her  apron.  The  dam  had  broken. 
It  all  came  back  upon  him.  He  turned  and  looked  up 
the  valley  strewn  with  the  wreckage  left  by  the  receding 
waters.  How  could  he  have  lived  through  it  with  that 
boy  in  his  arms?  How  could  either — 

Had  the  boy  indeed  lived? 

With  a  cry  that  thrilled  the  rude  but  sympathetic  hearts 
about  him,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  inanimate  boy  and 
implored  him  to  come  back  to  life,  to  love,  to  him.  It 
was  a  torrent  of  feeling  poured  forth.  The  barriers  with- 
in had  broken  away  and  the  flood  swept  all  before  it.  The 
little  crowd  stood  about  looking  down  upon  him  and  his 
grief  in  amazement  and  silence.  They  pitied  him  for  his 
suffering;  they  loved  him  for  his  sorrow.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  that  tumult  little  Lena's  grief  was  hushed.  It  was 
secondary.  She  could  not  understand  the  cause,  but 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  fact.  Insensibly  drawn  to 
him  she  placed  her  hand  in  his,  nervous  and  trembling. 
The  boy  coughed  and  choked,  then  sighed  back  into 
silence.  In  an  instant  more,  with  a  strange,  inarticulate 
cry,  Chilon  had  him  in  his  arms  and  was  rushing  toward 
the  house.  At  the  brow  of  the  hill  he  met  Colonel  Mar- 
beau,  greatly  distressed,  and  they  went  in,  together.  But 
as,  bearing  the  senseless  form,  Chilon  crossed  the  rose 
garden,  a  woman  appeared  for  an  instant  at  the  upper 
window  and  gazed  with  straining  eyes  upon  the  burden 
he  bore.  The  boy's  white  face  was  upturned,  his  wet 
hair  hanging  down  in  disorder,  his  clothing  torn  and 
bloody.  A  piercing  shriek  rang  through  the  house,  fol- 
lowed by  another  and  another,  and  then  the  sound  of  a 


268  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

sharp,  fierce  struggle.  A  moment  later,  when  the  wound- 
ed boy  had  been  carried  into  the  guest's  chamber,  with 
disheveled  hair  and  face  full  of  fear  and  horror,  Lena,  the 
woman,  burst  into  the  room,  crying: 

"My  boy!  My  beautiful  boy.  Who  has  done  this?  Who 
has  killed  my  child?"  She  cast  off  the  pitying  hands  that 
both  men  placed  upon  her  and  threw  herself  down  by  the 
little  fellow's  side,  calling  upon  him  frantically  to  speak 
to  her,  his  mother.  And  ever  as  she  called  upon  him  her 
lips  covered  his  face  and  hands  with  kisses  and  pleaded 
with  him  to  look  upon,  to  speak  to  her.  Tears  were 
streaming  from  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  who  witnessed 
the  scene  and  from  those  of  the  servants  who  crowded 
around  the  door  silent  and  sympathetic.  Only  Chilon 
understood.  With  the  others  it  was  insanity.  The  tall 
mulatto  woman  angrily  forced  her  way  through  groups 
at  the  door  and  advanced  to  the  side  of  her  patient;  but 
at  that  moment  the  boy,  opening  his  eyes,  had  fixed  them 
in  wonder  upon  the  face  above  him.  The  light  in  them 
grew  soft  and  melting  and  a  rare  smile  came  unto  his 
lips.  Acting  instantly  upon  a  mental  suggestion,  Chilon, 
the  man,  stepped  to  the  bedside  and  put  aside  the  nurse's 
hand,  pressing  her  back.  The  woman  stood  looking 
upon  him  amazed  and  indignant,  but  he  paid  no  attention 
to  her,  except  that  for  the  third  time  she  attempted  to 
reach  the  kneeling  woman,  with  unconscious  violence  he 
thrust  her  far  away. 

"Look!"  he  said  to  the  colonel,  whose  face  was  turned 
to  him  in  surprise.  He  pointed  to  the  woman  and  boy  as 
he  spoke.  Some  powerful  change  had  come  over  her 
at  sight  of  the  new,  the  loving  intelligent  look  in  his  eyes. 
"Will  some  one  bring  'me  camphor  and  a  towel?"  she 
said  in  calm  and  natural  tones;  and  when  these  were  hand- 
ed she  began  to  bathe  the  discolored  face  and  wipe  it  dry 
at  the  same  time  giving,  calmly,  directions,  for  further 
service. 

"Go  to  the  little  room  and  bring  me  the  blankets  from 
the  closet.  Jerry,  bring  me  a  basin  of  warm  water  and 


NATURE'S  CLARION  CALL.  269 

some  clean  linen  cloths — tear  a  sheet  if  you  can  find 
nothing  else."  And  soon,  removing  the  bloody  band- 
ages, she  began  intelligently  to  cleanse  the  wound  and 
dress  it. 

The  two  men  standing  guard  over  her  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  joyful  and  triumphant.  The  mulatto  seized 
this  moment  to  catch  Lena's  eye  and  attention. 

"Come,"  she  said,  with  quiet  authority.  Shivering, 
Lena  looked  upon  her,  distressed  and  uncertain,  but  be- 
fore she  moved,  Chilon,  taking  the  woman  by  both  shoul- 
ders, whirled  her  out  of  the  room  through  the  group  of 
astonished  spectators  and  forced  her  up  the  stairs. 

''Do  you  know  me?"  he  asked  sternly,  almost  savagely, 
as  he  released  her. 

"I  do  not,"  she  said,  unterrified  and  defiant. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  he  added,  excitedly;  "but  I 
shall  stand  on  these  steps  to-night  and  if  you  descend 
them  you  do  it  at  the  peril  of  your  life!  He  was 
full  of  emotion  and  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was  say- 
ing. The  woman  looked  upon  him  in  wonder  and  with- 
drew. Chilon  reached  the  bend  of  the  stairs;  there  was 
an  outcry  below,  and  Celeste,  an  unchained  tigress,  burst 
in  upon  the  company.  "Where  is  he?  Where  is  my 
child?"  she  cried,  her  voice  ringing  through  the  house 
and  thrilling  them  with  the  fear  and  pain  it  carried. 

Chilon  drew  back  and  waited.  Here  was  an  issue  he 
had  not  foreseen.  He  dared  not  go  below. 

The  little  girl  going  up  to  change  her  dress,  passed  and 
he  did  not  see  her,  as  for  the  moment  he  sat  upon  the 
stair,  his  face  within  his  hand.  She  paused  a  moment  by 
his  side  and  then,  respecting  his  grief,  continued  on.  In 
her  mother's  room  she  found  the  lamp  by  the  window — 
for  it  was  then  dark  without — and  taking  it  went  into 
her  own  little  room  adjoining  and  began  her  toilet.  Her 
clothing  was  wet  and  stained  with  mud  and  the  blood  of 
her  little  friend.  She  had  scarcely  finished,  when  the 
mulatto  woman  entered  hurriedly  from  somewhere  and 
angrily  seizing  the  lamp,  restored  it  to  the  other  room 
and  its  first  position. 


270  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 
THE  MULATTO. 

When  Celeste  rushed  into  the  room  below  she  gave  one 
quick  glance  at  the  scene  and  threw  herself  down  beside 
the  bed,  seizing  the  limp  hand  of  the  boy  and  straining 
her  eyes  into  his  blank  white  face.  By  this  action  Lena 
was  displaced. 

"Celeste!"  she  said,  her  voice  full  of  emotion  and  re- 
proach, "Celeste!  Celeste!" 

"He  is  mine,"  said  the  woman,  fiercely.  "No  one 
shall  take  my  place!  Chilon,  my  child,  my  precious,  my 
little  love,  look  up,  darling, — ah,  see,  he  knows  me — he 
lives !"  The  boy  indeed  opened  his  eyes  at  that  moment 
and  gazed  affectionately  into  her  face.  And  then  turn- 
ing, he  let  them  rest  with  love  and  awe  upon  that  of  the 
other  woman.  A  smile  swept  awray  the  uncertainty,  the 
confusion.  Closing  them  again  he  breathed  deep  and 
slept.  Lena  buried  her  face  in  the  bedding  and  gave  her- 
self up  to  sobs,  dry  and  inarticulate  sounds,  and  except 
for  these,  silence  fell  upon  the  room. 

And  then  came  Chilon  to  the  door  and  beckoned  Col- 
onel Marbeau  outside. 

"The  boy!"  he  said  and  could  ask  no  more. 

"He  is  all  right,  I  think."  The  other  man's  lips  moved 
in  prayer. 

"Do  not  disturb  her,"  he  said  at  length,  pointing  to  the 
sobbing  woman.  "I  believe  it  is  the  crisis.  If  she  does 
not  come  forth  clear  from  this,  she  has  no  chance." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  the  colonel.  "I  have  sent  for  phy- 
sicians. You  may  be  right." 

Chilon  went  back  to  the  bend  of  the  stairs  in  the  shad- 
ow. It  was  his  safest  place  while  Celeste  was  there. 

An  old  struggle  in  the  mind  of  Celeste  was  renewed  as, 
her  fears  decreased  by  the  boy's  sleep,  she  knelt  and  wait- 


THE  MULATTO.  271 

ed.  She  knew  that  the  little  fellow  was  separated  from 
his  inheritance  as  long  as  she  held  his  secret,  and  that 
never,  unless  she  took  the  initiative,  would  there  be  an 
explanation.  She  was  the  stronger  of  the  two  women. 
If  she  pressed  upon  Lena  the  interests  of  the  boy  and  in- 
sisted with  determination  that  he  be  given  his  rights; 
nay,  if  she  but  released  Lena  of  her  promise  his  history 
would  be  told  regardless  of  the  facts  in  the  life  of  Chilon, 
the  elder.  She  alone  of  all  the  world,  stood  between  him 
and  his  welfare.  It  was  a  cruel  thought.  What  had  she 
done  in  all  the  long  years  to  reap  such  a  sorrow.  What 
indeed!  Only  those  years  with  their  weight  of  love  for 
the  boy  rose  before  her.  She  was  innocent;  yet  she  real- 
ized that  the  finger  of  fate  in  tracing  his,  had  written  sor- 
row across  her  life.  She  tried  to  picture  him  living  at 
Ravenswood,  and  coming  to  visit  her.  She  saw  in  fancy 
the  visits,  frequent  at  first,  grow  less  so.  She  saw  the 
love  that  bound  him  to  her  weakened  and  supplanted  by 
new  pleasures  and  dignities,  and  by  other  loves  as  time 
went  on.  It  was  ruin  for  her! 

"Not  yet!  Not  yet!  Oh,  not  yet!"  she  cried  aloud,  and 
clasped  the  boy  to  her  heart  again. 

Then  came  little  Lena,  grave,  silent,  and  alone  She 
passed  the  group  about  the  door  and  standing  between 
the  two  women,  looked  lovingly  upon  the  face  of  her 
friend.  It  was  a  compromise.  They  did  not  repel  her. 
Celeste,  giving  up  her  place,  went  around  and  reclined 
upon  the  bed,  her  cheek  next  to  the  moist  hair  of  her 
boy.  As  she  lay  she  watched  the  little  girl's  face,  beauti- 
ful in  that  dimly  lighted  room.  Strange  thoughts  came, 
memories  that  shook  her  heart.  Tears  came,  too,  and 
fell  upon  the  pillow.  Little  Lena  saw  them. 

"I  think  he  is  sleeping,  Cousin  Celeste,"  she  said.  "He 
does  not  suffer!"  Celeste  turned  gratefully  toward  the 
little  comforter. 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear.  But  I  was  not  thinking  of  that!" 
The  elder  Lena  had  fallen  asleep,  her  face  hidden  in  her 
arms.  It  was  the  reaction  of  excitement.  Psychologists 


272  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

might  have  attributed  it  to  the  same  power  that  soothed 
the  sufferer. 

"She  is  tired,"  said  Celeste,  softly  looking  upon  the 
silent  mother.  "Do  not  wake  her.  Are  you  not  tired, 
my  child?" 

"Oh,  no.  But  you  are,  Cousin  Celeste!  Leave  him 
with  me.  I  will  awake  you  if  he  should  stir  and  need 
anything.  I  am  not  at  all  tired." 

"I  will  wait  with  you,  dear.  The  doctor  will  come 
soon." 

Satisfied  that  the  danger  had  passed  the  group  about 
the  door  dissolved  slowly  and  quiet  reigned.  The 
gentle  soughing  of  the  winds  in  the  trees  was  distinctly 
audible,  the  first  murmur  of  a  storm.  It  seemed  to  little 
Lena  that  they  called  Chilon's  name.  The  candle  burned 
dimly  and  no  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  room  ex- 
cept the  sleeper's  low  breathing.  It  was  very  still  and 
solemn.  After  a  while  she  did  that  which  those  who 
move  in  the  cold,  false  world  outside  would  have  smiled 
over.  She  ran  one  arm  under  the  boy's  neck  so  gently 
that  the  action  did  not  awaken  him,  and  laid  her  cheek 
by  his,  on  the  pillow.  Looking  into  Celeste's  eyes  pres- 
ently she  smiled  and  closed  her  own. 

The  candle  burned  itself  dimly  into  its  socket.  Celeste 
presently  arose,  and  tenderly  as  a  mother  lays  her  baby 
to  sleep,  she  unclasped  the  little  girl's  arms,  lifted  her 
tired  frame  in  her  own,  took  her  across  the  hall  and 
placed  her  upon  the  library  lounge.  Coming  back,  she 
spoke  gently  to  Lena. 

"Lie  down  beside  him,  dear.  He  is  all  right  now." 
There  was  in  the  air  the  stillness  of  repose  and  Lena, 
looking  once  about  her,  succumbed  to  the  new,  sweet 
peace  that  soothed  her  senses,  and  sinking  beside  her  boy, 
slept  again.  The  other  woman,  her  face  radiant  with 
the  light  of  a  great  soul  triumphant,  kept  watch  above 
them. 

Assured  by  occasional  visits  of  the  safety  of  the  little 
patient,  Colonel  Marbeau,  upon  the  porch  in  his  great 


THE  MULATTO.  273 

rocker,  dozed  and  awaited  the  long  delayed  physician. 
Robert  Aubren  had  come  and  received  assurance  of  the 
boy's  safety,  but  declined  a  cordial  invitation  to  remain. 

The  physician  arrived  at  last,  dressed  the  wound  more 
carefully,  and  administered  an  opiate.  With  quiet  and 
repose  all  would  be  well.  He  adjourned  to  the  veranda 
for  a  cigar  with  Colonel  Marbeau.  It  was  too  late  to  re- 
turn to  the  city.  A  storm  had  developed.  The  patter  of 
raindrops  had  begun  and  the  vivid  lightning  was  burst- 
ing asunder  the  darkness  of  the  glades.  The  wind  mur- 
murs had  deepened.  In  the  far  distance  the  approaching 
storm  rolled  its  sullen  warning. 

In  the  meantime,  Chilon  kept  watch  at  the  turn  of  the 
stairs.  Twice  the  mulatto  attempted  to  descend,  but 
each  time  was  sternly  repulsed.  She  pleaded  the  duties 
of  a  nurse  and  the  necessity  for  administering  medicine 
without  avail.  Then  she  gave  way  to  rage,  shifting  the 
shawl  upon  her  arm  and  glaring  at  him  like  a  chained 
beast.  His  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  a  dangerous  knife 
half  revealed.  Catching  her  wrist  he  wrenched  the  wea- 
pon from  her  grasp  and  held  her.  Baffled,  she  stood 
silent,  looking  upon  him,  and  then,  with  one  fierce,  quick 
struggle  that  would  have  succeeded  had  his  strength  been 
tripled,  broke  his  hold  and  disappeared  in  the  shadows 
above  him. 

Chilon  was  now  in  a  predicament,  from  which  he  knew 
not  how  to  escape.  To  face  Celeste  would  be  fatal  to  his 
plans.  He  was  uncertain  as  to  Lena.  Yet  either  might 
at  any  moment  ascend  the  stair.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  he  abandoned  it,  he  abandoned  his  protection  of  Lena; 
for  her  safety,  he  was  convinced,  depended  upon  his 
breaking  the  chains  that  in  some  way  had  been  forged 
for  her  by  the  yellow  woman. 

The  situation  could  not  remain  unchanged  much  long- 
er. In  the  morning  what  would  happen? 

The  house  grew  quiet,  except  for  the  monotonous 
sound  of  the  men's  subdued  voices  on  the  veranda.  In 
his  own  room  all  was  stillness,  for  Celeste  sat  brooding 
is 


274  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

above  the  sleeping  forms  of  mother  and  child,  their  faces 
almost  touching  upon  the  pillow.  If  any  one  else 
was  up  about  the  house  the  quiet  was  not  disturbed. 

But  others  were  up.  Chilon,  sitting  on  the  stair,  was 
suddenly  made  conscious  of  the  fact  by  the  flashing  on 
the  wall  of  that  telltale  ray  through  the  keyhole  of  the 
ballroom.  Again  that  strange  woman  was  at  work  with 
his  uncle's  papers,  searching.  This  time  he  would  ascer- 
tain her  motive.  He  would  not  wait  until  the  light  was 
extinguished,  but  go  in  boldly  upon  her  regardless  of 
consequences.  If  she  dared  to  raise  an  alarm  it  would  be 
worse  for  her  than  for  him,  when  the  master  came.  But 
while  he  was  debating  and  deciding  the  light  went  out. 
He  sprang  up  the  steps  a  moment  too  late.  Again  near 
him  he  heard  the  rolls  of  thunder,  the  opening  of  the 
door,  the  low  swish  of  a  woman's  garments  and  then 
her  almost  inaudible  footsteps,  as  she  passed  away.  He 
turned  and  followed.  There  was  no  need  for  quiet. 
The  storm  was  at  hand. 

The  woman  preceded  him  down  the  hall  past  Lena's 
door.  He  saw  her  distinctly  in  the  sudden  glare  of  the 
electric  fluid,  and  hesitating  but  a  moment,  he  followed 
on.  Then  the  door  of  his  own  old  room  opened  and 
the  woman  entered.  It  was  a  room  that  for  him  held 
both  sweet  and  awful  memories ;  but  now  it  held  a  mys- 
tery besides.  For  what  possible  purpose  could  the 
mulatto  be  entering  that  room?  He  had  put  his  hand  to 
the  plow  and  would  not  turn  back.  Throwing  the  door 
wide  open  he  stepped  boldly  inside. 


MEMORY'S  FLASHLIGHT.  275 

CHAPTER  L. 
MEMORY'S  FLASHLIGHT. 

For  the  moment  it  was  as  dark  as  a  moonless  mid- 
night; but  dimly  through  the  open  windows  he  saw  the 
lashing  trees.  Could  it  be  possible  that  the  woman  had 
issued  that  way?  He  ran  to  the  window;  but  at  that 
moment  there  were  behind  him  quick  footsteps.  He 
turned,  quivering  with  excitement  and  dread.  The  hour, 
the  scene,  the  thought  of  that  night  four  years  before, 
combined,  destroyed  his  nerve  and  suspended  judgment. 
The  approaching  footsteps  thrilled  him.  Before  he  had 
whirled  in  his  tracks  he  knew  that  an  enemy  was  there 
and  upon  him.  He  had  turned,  panic-stricken,  unpre- 
pared for  any  danger.  What  he  saw  in  the  transient 
flame  of  the  lightning  was  a  man,  knife  in  hand,  rushing 
toward  him.  He  himself  had  a  weapon;  the  one  taken 
from  the  woman.  In  the  dumb  weakness  of  his  amaze- 
ment and  terror,  he  raised  his  arm.  He  could  not  have 
struck;  mind  and  body  were  almost  paralyzed.  The  weak 
action  was  mechanical,  a  mere  instinctive  effort  of  the 
animal.  This  the  stranger  could  not  have  known,  but 
he  was  apparently  merciful.  He  hesitated  one  instant 
at  what  he  saw,  struck  down  the  hand  with  a  quick,  sharp 
blow,  dashing  the  weapon  to  the  floor.  Springing 
through  the  window  he  rushed  across  the  narrow  roof, 
cast  back  one  quick,  frightened  look  upon  the  scene  he 
was  leaving,  and  plunged  headlong  through  the  tree  to 
the  ground.  Chilon  made  no  attempt  to  follow;  he  stood 
looking  upon  the  fallen  knife  which,  now  open,  was  shim- 
mering mute  echoes  of  the  incessant  lightning.  The  like- 
ness of  the  scene  to  that  of  memory  was  perfect.  The 
man — was  there  a  man?  Had  any  one  passed  him?  Did 
he  dream,  or  had  reason  fled?  His  quick,  full  pulse  beat 


276  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

fiercely  in  his  bruised  and  swollen  hand.  That  was  no 
dream. 

Then  upon  the  palimpset  of  the  mind  where  fate  was 
writing  anew,  shone  vividly  the  lines  of  an  old  record 
once  almost  effaced.  He  gave  forth  a  great  wordless, 
meaningless  sound,  a  cry  that  rang  through  the  house 
and  brought  the  watchers  below  to  their  feet.  Again 
and  again  it  sounded,  and  fearfully  they  came  to  where 
he  knelt.  They  found  him,  his  face  white  in  the  light 
of  their  candles.  The  two  women,  after  the  first  moment, 
stood  looking  upon  him,  Celeste  mute  and  determined; 
but  Lena,  uttering  his  name,  and  hesitating  a  moment 
longer  as  though  doubting  the  vision,  threw  herself  upon 
him,  repeating  it  again  and  again. 

"I  am  innocent,  innocent!"  he  cried.  "Celeste,  I  was 
not  the  man!  He  was  here;  I  have  seen  him!  Again 
he  struck  my  knife  to  the  floor!  I  am  innocent,  inno- 
cent!" 

"What  is  this?  Chilon?  Who  calls  Chilon?  Who 
are  you,  sir,  that  answers?  Celeste,  take  your  cousin  to 
her  room!" 

Greatly  agitated,  the  colonel  was  advancing,  feeling  for 
his  glasses  as  he  came. 

"Let  no  one  touch  her;  I  answered  to  the  name.  Time 
and  misfortune  have  left  but  little  of  the  Chilon  you  once 
knew,  but  I  am  he.  Lena,  look  up!  It  is  indeed  Chilon, 
unchanged  in  the  love  he  bore  you — all  unchanged  in 
that!" 

The  colonel  laid  his  hand  upon  his  sho,ulder  and  looked 
intently  into  his  face. 

"You — you  are  Chilon  Marbeau?" 

And  then  in  the  silence  that  fell  upon  them  all  as  the 
old  man  sadly  studied  the  face,  again  came  his  conclusion. 
"If  it  is  true,  you  have  paid  a  debt,  my  boy;  the  record 
is  there." 

"And  a  debt  that  bankrupted  youth,  uncle.  I  came 
back  to  your  house  because  the  temptation  to  be  with 
you  all  again,  to  see  this  dear  one  here,  and  hear  her 


MEMORY'S  FLASHLIGHT.  277 

sweet  voice,  was  irresistible.  I  came  to  you  unknown, 
as  I  came  four  years  ago  unknown  to  this  room,  this 
spot—" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that,  a  fugitive,  I  lay  in  old  Silvy's  cabin,  de- 
lirious with  fever,  my  mind  full  of  the  wrongs  done  to  me 
by  Richard  Marbeau — " 

"No,  no!     Speak  quick — you  did  not,  you  did  not! — " 

"Urged  on  by  her  suggestion,  armed  by  her,  crazed 
and  fearful  for  Lena,  I  came  here  to  this  room  and  when 
I  recovered  my  senses  for  a  moment,  I  stood  above  the 
body  of  Richard,  my  knife  by  his  side  upon  the  floor.  I 
fled.  When  reason  returned  it  was  all  like  a  dream  to 
me,  the  tragedy,  the  scene.  I  seemed  to  have  killed  him. 
Others  thought  me  guilty;  I  fled  back  into  the  world. 
But  to-night  I  followed  here  the  woman  nurse,  taking 
from  her  this  weapon,  which  she  would  perhaps  have 
used  upon  me.  As  I  turned  back  from  the  window,  a 
man  rushed  upon  me,  struck  down  the  weapon  and  com- 
pleted the  memory  of  that  terrible  night.  For,  as  heaven 
is  my  judge,  I  saw  him  dimly  then  as  I  saw  him  to-night ; 
and  when  I  stooped  to  pick  up  the  knife  I  touched  Rich- 
ard's blood.  It  is  true — Celeste — Lena — Uncle — I  swear 
to  you  it  is  true!" 

"I  believe  you,  dear!     Lena  believes  you!" 

"Lena!"  They  crowded  about  her  in  wonder  and 
gazed  into  each  other's  faces,  doubtful,  but  rejoicing.  The 
reaction  had  come  to  the  bent  and  wearied  mind.  Its 
shadows  were  gone. 

"I  believe  you,  dear.  I  have  known  it  a  long  time. 
Celeste  told  me  it  was  not  you." 

"Celeste!"  The  brother  looked  quickly  to  the  poor 
woman.  She  knelt  before  him. 

"But  not  in  time.  Forgive  me,  Chilon;  forgive  me! 
I  could  not  give  him  up  then!  You  owe  me  forgiveness, 
brother!  I  have  been  a  mother  to  your  son;  no  child 
ever  had  a  more  loving,  a  more  devoted  mother!  When 
I  deceived  her,  I  seemed  to  be  defending  him.  And 


278  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

while  you  did  not  strike  the  blow,  you  were  with  him!" 

"You,  too,  saw  the  man,  then?"  He  could  not  realize 
it. 

"Yes!  For  one  instant!  As  you  entered  the  window 
and  lifted  your  hand  to  strike,  Richard  fell  dead  and  this 
man  dashed  you  aside  and  escaped.  It  is  true!  I  told 
them  a  tramp  did  it;  but  I  let  Lena  think  I  was  shielding 
you.  I  deceived  you.  You  would  have  taken  my  boy! 
I  have  suffered."  He  lifted  her  and  passed  his  free  arm 
about  her. 

"Who  am  I,  sister,  to  forgive?     Say  no  more!" 

The  colonel  was  speechless  over  these  rapid  develop- 
ments, but  one  sentence  set  him  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. 

"His  son?  Chilon's  son!  Where  is  Chilon's  son?" 
Lena,  breaking  away  from  Chilon's  clasp,  threw  herself 
upon  his  breast  and  hid  her  face  there. 

"And  yours?"  he  whispered.     "Chilon's  and  yours?" 

He  read  the  truth  in  the  faces  about  him. 

"Where  is  this— child?" 

"Oh,  father,"  said  the  woman,  "it  is  not  clear  to  me; 
but  if  I  have  not  been  with  him  to-night,  if  I  have  not  lain 
by  his  side,  his  cheek  to  mine,  then  indeed  am  I  lost!" 

"What!  The  boy  Chilon!  Do  you  mean  the  little 
boy?" 

"Yes.  It  is  her  son,  uncle,"  said  Celeste;  "born  in  that 
first  sad  year  of  her  married  life.  She  gave  him  to  me 
because — well,  because  she  thought  it  for  the  best.  And 
after  awhile  it  was  for  the  best.  You  would  have  known 
it  some  day;  I  would  have  told  you!" 

Lena,  with  sudden  return  of  memory,  for  the  boy's 
condition,  had  glided  out  of  the  room;  and,  still  a  little 
uneasy  on  her  account,  Chilon  followed.  They  entered 
the  room  below  together.  Little  Lena,  with  pale  face 
and  eyes  full  of  unsubdued  terror,  knelt  by  the  sleeping 
boy,  her  arm  under  his  head.  In  the  few  minutes  of  her 
mother's  absence  she  had  earned  her  share  of  suffering. 

There  was  a  whispered  consultation  between  the  phy- 


MEMORY'S  FLASHLIGHT.  279 

sician  and  the  gentlemen,  and  Lena  was  persuaded 
to  retire.  This  she  would  only  agree  to  do  by  the  side 
of  her  boy.  No  argument  could  induce  her  to  ascend  the 
steps  again.  Mention  of  the  mulatto  brought  on  an  agi- 
tation that  alarmed  them  all  again.  In  the  tumult  this 
woman  had  been  forgotten.  She  was  found  in  the  old 
ball  room,  sitting  in  sullen  and  silent  dignity.  She  re- 
fused to  answer  any  question,  and  when  released  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  pack  up  her  things.  Search  among 
them  prior  to  her  departure  revealed  an  old  will,  written 
by  Gaston  Marbeau  years  before,  which,  worthless  in  the 
south,  in  England  might  have  been  of  great  value.  So 
she  believed,  and  she  had  acted  in  accordance,  for  when 
these  events  came  to  the  knowledge  of  old  Gaston,  he 
took  occasion  to  look  for  his  revised  will.  It  was  never 
found. 


280  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  LI. 

GARNER'S  CONFESSION. 

When  the  storm  passed  a  sad  scene  was  unfolded  to 
the  moon  that  shone  down  through  the  spaces  of  the  old 
cedar.  A  man's  white  face  was  turned  upward,  and  for 
hours  his  lips  moved  in  dumb  agony  as  his  eyes  searched 
for  rescue.  This  came  only  at  dawn.  The  men  had  dis- 
cussed the  events  of  the  night  over  and  over,  Chilon  silent 
upon  some  things.  Who  was  the  stranger  and  what  was 
his  purpose?  And  what  connection  could  he  have  had 
with  the  silent,  sullen  woman  upstairs?  But  at  dawn 
they  knew.  When  they  walked  around  under  the  cedar 
to  examine  for  traces  of  his  flight,  they  found  him;  and 
criminal,  murderer  as  he  was,  they  gave  him  aid.  As 
gently  as  possible  the  negroes  who  were  called  lifted  him 
from  the  wet  ground,  chilled  and  agonized,  and  bore  him 
in  doors.  There  was  considerable  commotion  and  the 
mulatto  woman  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  look 
upon  the  scene.  Then  she  glided  down,  doubting,  shud- 
dering, lingering  on  the  way,  clinging  to  rail  and  newel 
until  her  eyes  found  his  face.  She  threw  herself  down  by 
the  side  of  the  litter  and  filled  the  house  with  her  lament- 
ations. There  was  no  need  then  to  ask  the  connection; 
there  is  no  grief  that  compares  with  the  grief  of  a  woman 
for  her  offspring.  And  to  Chilon,  who  assisted,  a  great 
deal  more  was  explained  when  from  the  dying  man's 
pockets  they  took  the  counterfeit  plates. 

For  only  then  did  he  recognize  Carl  Garner. 

The  hand  of  science  did  all  that  was  possible  for  the 
wretched  man,  but  the  physician  warned  him  that  if  there 
was  aught  that  should  be  arranged,  it  would  be  well  to 
attend  to  it  immediately;  that  his  chances  were  slender. 
This  information  depressed  him  frightfully ;  but  he  rallied 
after  some  hours. 


GARNER'S  CONFESSION.  281 

Colonel  Marbeau,  for  some  reason,  had  precipitately 
departed  from  the  scene,  but  Chilon  had  been  looking 
upon  the  stranger  from  time  to  time.  Revenge  was  now 
impossible;  he  was  not  thinking  of  revenge.  The  dumb 
despair  and  suffering  disarmed  him  completely.  The 
years  of  bitterness  and  anguish  fell  away  from  him  as 
bad  dreams  shed  at  dawn.  No  man  had  been  more 
wronged ;  a  week  ago  and  he  could  not  have  stood  calm- 
ly, pityingly  looking  upon  such  an  enemy.  He 
would  have  been  tempted  to  trample  him  as  a  scotched 
and  dying  snake  beneath  his  heel;  he  would  have  thrilled 
with  joy  to  see  life  fade  out  from  dimming  eye  and  re- 
laxing limb.  But  gentle  hands  had  been  leading  him 
back  to  peace,  although  he  did  not  know  it. 

The  wounded  man  seemed  to  be  trying  to  communi- 
cate with  him;  a  message  waited  in  his  straining  eyes. 
Chilon  knelt  silently  and  placed  his  ear  by  his  lips.  A 
single  word  escaped  them: 

"Priest!"  That  was  all.  To  have  drawn  back  then 
and  awaited  in  silence  the  end,  to  have  seen  the  soul  go 
out  unshrived,  would  have  been  an  exquisite  revenge. 
He  was  not  capable  of  it.  He  nodded,  consenting. 
Again  their  eyes  met  with  quick  understanding. 

"You  mean  that  it  would  benefit  me?"  he  said.  Again 
for  a  moment  the  dying  man  closed  his  eyes.  "Do  you 
wish  to  confess  all?"  And  to  this  the  same  eloquent  as- 
sent was  given. 

Chilon  turned  away,  but  came  back  and  knelt  by  the 
dying  man's  side. 

"If  you  will  do  that — if  you  will  speak  the  truth  for 
me; — but  no,  let  it  be  without  conditions.  As  I  myself 
hope  for  forgiveness,  I  have,  in  my  heart,  forgiven  you." 

A  faint  smile  came  upon  the  lips  of  the  other.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  turned  his  face. 

"I  believe  and  thank — "  he  began,  and  stopped,  ex- 
hausted. Then  Chilon  went  forth  and  drove  as  for  his 
own  life,  leaving  the  physician  to  keep  his  enemy  alive. 
The  priest  returned  with  him,  and  the  dying  man,  under 


282  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

the  support  of  powerful  stimulants,  made  his  confession, 
little  by  little,  slowly,  painfully.  Then  they  left  him  alone 
with  that  dark-skinned,  silent  mother.  Some  hours  later 
she  came  out* and  said  calmly: 

"He  is  dead!" 

There  was  no  tear  nor  outcry  then;  but  in  the  look 
that  she  bestowed  upon  Lena  and  Chilon  as  she  passed 
them  was  so  much  malignity  and  threatening,  that  it  was 
thought  best  to  remove  her  from  the  house  as  soon  as 
possible.  Chilon  made  an  effort  to  secure  a  portion  of 
the  medicine  that  she  had  been  using  upon  her  patient, 
but  the  bottle  was  found  to  be  empty  and  cleansed. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  prosecution,  but  Colonel  Mar- 
beau  instantly  opposed  it.  He  sent  her  back  to  England 
immediately  after  the  burial  of  her  son. 

Chilon  faced  his  uncle  in  the  old  library  some  days  after 
the  tragedy  by  which  Carl  Garner,  as  he  was  still  known 
to  the  family,  lost  his  worthless  life.  The  boy  had  re- 
covered rapidly,  and  safe  and  happy  with  Lena  and  her 
mother  had  gone  for  the  day  to  Rose  Cottage;  but  that 
day,  holy  though  it  is  in  its  love  and  self-renunciations, 
in  its  tears  and  tender  pledges,  has  no  place  in  these 
chronicles.  The  tangled  skein  unwinds  at  Ravenswood. 

Wounded  deeply  in  his  tenderest  spot,  shocked  and 
confused  by  the  rapidly  shifting  scenes,  and  torn  by  con- 
flicting emotions,  Colonel  Marbeau  was  long  in  recover- 
ing his  dignity  and  calmness.  When  he  succeeded  in 
this,  he  was  at  once  the  head  of  the  family,  bent  upon 
preserving  its  good  name,  and  a  merciless  judge  of  him 
who  had  so  grossly  threatened  and  abused  his  hospitality. 
Chilon  knew  that  such  a  meeting  was  inevitable  and  pre- 
pared himself. 

Rapidly  the  old  man  summed  up  the  charges  against 
him,  growing  more  and  more  excited  as  the  list  length- 
ened, and  the  awful  consequences  unfolded.  He  expected 
a  defense;  there  was  none.  The  younger  man  rose  at 
length,  when,  worn  out,  his  accuser  sank  in  his  great 
chair  exhausted  by  the  passion  that  had  exhausted  itself. 


GARNER'S  CONFESSION.  283 

"You  have  spoken  the  truth,  uncle.  I  have  no  de- 
fense; but  I  declare  to  you  that  no  stain  through  me  rests 
upon  your  name.  I  have  sinned,  but  I  have  paid  the 
penalty." 

He  held  in  his  hand  a  document  which  he  began  to  un- 
fold. "It  is  the  confession  of  Carl  Garner,"  he  said  in 
explanation,  "as  prepared  by  the  priest  from  his  notes. 
He  writes  me  that  the  language  is  his  own,  but  every  fact 
is  authorized;  that  the  dying  man's  sentences  were  dis- 
jointed and  disconnected,  and  could  not  be  produced  ver- 
batim. I  wish  to  read  it  to  you,  uncle.  Will  you  hear 
it?  I  think  that  after  you  have  heard  it  you  will  not 
judge  me  harshly."  The  colonel  looked  quickly  upon 
the  paper  and  seemed  about  to  protest.  After  a  moment's 
thought  he  said: 

"Proceed,  I  will  listen."  The  younger  man  began  to 
read,  his  voice  filling  the  room  with  its  suppressed  pas- 
sion as  the  story  grew : 

"My  name,  as  generally  known,  is  Carl  Garner  and  I 
was  born  in  France,  the  son  of  the  woman  Merta,  who 
is  here  to-night.  Let  my  father  speak  for  himself  when 
he  chooses.  I  was  born  in  disgrace.  I  have  lived  in  dis- 
grace, and  so  I  die.  Let  no  man  blame  me'too  much.  I 
became  acquainted  early  in  life  with  my  circumstances;  I 
despaired.  That  life  has  been  one  of  error.  It  has  cost 
my  mother  her  soul,  if  she  has  one.  It  has  cost  my 
father  his  happiness  and  honor,  besides  the  greater  por- 
tion of  his  fortune.  I  made  them  pay  for  all  that  I  had 
lost. 

"A  change  in  my  father's  circumstances  drove  me  from 
England,  where  we  were  then  living.  My  mother  had 
long  been  no  more  than  his  housekeeper. 

"He  married  at  last  and  she  was  pensioned.  I  began 
life  in  America  by  crime.  A  skilled  penman  and  fairly 
good  engraver,  I  tried  my  hand  at  counterfeiting  and 
succeeded.  I  soon  had  companions  by  the  dozen.  They 
called  me  a  genius;  but  the  labor  was  enormous,  and  I 
was  getting  but  little  profit.  About  this  time,  attracted 


284  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

by  his  name — Marbeau — familiar  to  me, — I  met  Chilon 
and  would  have  been  devoted  to  him  but  that  accident 
had  put  him  in  possession  of  a  counterfeit  of  marvelous 
perfection  that  rendered  me  almost  insane  with  envy. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  the  best  claim  to  it.  He 
was  in  disgrace,  in  need  of  money  and  greatly  distressed. 
I  suggested  that  we  print  specimen  bills  and  show  them 
to  the  government,  offering  to  produce  the  plates  for 
a  snug  sum.  He  yielded  after  a  while,  when  I  assured 
him  that  no  law  was  to  be  broken,  and  I  accompanied 
him  to  Ravenswood.  We  entered  through  his  former 
room  and  seizing  an  opportunity  used  the  plates  upon  a 
hand  press.  I  had  brought  paper.  We  then  returned, 
I  supposing  that  he  had  the  plates  in  his  bag.  He  had, 
however,  secreted  them,  having  become  suspicious  of  my 
sincerity;  and  with  reason,  for  I  had  not  intended  to  in- 
form the  government.  We  quarreled.  There  was  al- 
ready a  reward  out  for  Carl  Garner,  and  I  stood  in  with 
another  party  and  sacrificed  the  boy.  He  was  arrested 
as  Garner  and  the  counterfeits  found  in  his  satchel.  I 
did  it  without  fear.  I  knew  him  well  enough  to  be  as- 
sured that  he  would  die  before  he  would  peach.  I  did  it, 
too,  for  revenge  upon  the  maker  of  those  plates.  He  was 
tried,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  twenty  years  in  the  peni- 
tentiary, when  the  truth  and  delivery  of  the  plates  would 
have  saved  him." 

When  this  statement  was  complete  the  colonel,  hav- 
ing roused  himself  violently,  was  sitting  upright  in  his 
chair  with  a  scared,  white  face,  turned  to  the  reader. 

"But  you  did  not — go — my  boy — you — " 

"I  went  for  twelve  years.  I  have  eight  yet  to  serve,  for 
I  am  an  escaped  convict."  The  expression  of  his  uncle's 
face  was  indescribable.  His  trembling  fingers  undid  his 
cravat  slowly  and  reached  out  for  the  glass  of  water  upon 
his  table.  Chilon  did  not  seem  to  see  him.  He  was  gaz- 
ing upon  the  writing. 

"Escaped  convict!  You,  Chilon  Marbeau!  You  are 
playing  upon  my  feelings,  sir — it  is — impossible — it  can- 


GARNER'S  CONFESSION.  285 

not "  There  was  a  minute's  silence  before  he  found 

his  voice  again.  The  appearance  of  the  other  man  re- 
futed him.  Written  there  was  the  sentence  executed. 
The  sight  of  him  standing  there,  the  mute,  changed  being 
who  had  gone  so  recklessly  in  the  hot  passion  of  youth 
from  that  room,  struck  through  the  iron  of  his  pride. 
For  a  moment  pity,  a  wondering  pity,  ruled.  "Why  did 
you  not  tell  them  who  you  are?  We  have  friends  in  New 
York!  Why  did  you  not  wire  me?" 

"Because,"  said  Chilon,  quietly,  "the  money  was  print- 
ed in  your  house;  the  plates  were  still  here.  I  could  not 
get  them  without  a  disclosure.  They  wanted  the  plates. 
I  offered  them  my  promise,  but  they  would  not  take  it.  I 
could  do  no  more." 

A  low  cry  escaped  from  the  old  man's  lips. 

"And  then 

"And  then,  as  Carl  Garner,  I  went  to  prison  for  twelve 
years — until  I  escaped."  The  colonel  had  arisen,  and  now 
he  came  forward  and,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  nephew's 
shoulder,  looked  into  his  face.  A  new  light,  the  reflec- 
tion of  a  great  joy  was  there. 

"Do  you  mean  that  your  real  name  has  never  been 
used  in  this  matter?" 

"Never!  When  I  had  Garner's  name  fastened  upon 
me,  he  took  mine.  His  mouth  was  closed."  The  Colonel 
turned  away  and  paced  the  room  in  agitation.  Coming 
again  he  held  out  his  hand,  looking  tenderly  into  the 
other's  eyes. 

"Chilon!" 

"Uncle!" 

"I  have  wronged  you  in  thought  for  seventeen  years, 
but  I  tell  you  now  that  there  has  been  but  one  nobler 
Marbeau,  the  one  who  lost  his  name  at  Gettysburg  in  de- 
fense of  his  country!"  Chilon  pressed  the  hand  in  his. 

"I  owe  you  much,  uncle,  but  I  have  not  brought  dis- 
honor upon  your  name.  The  plan  I  had  in  connection 
with  the  plates  was  the  act  of  a  thoughtless  boy,  unac- 
quainted with  the  vigorous  laws  touching  a  counterfeit. 


286  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

My  wrong  doing  ended  there.  I  have  paid  for  it  with  my 
youth,  with  my  wife."  The  emotion  he  had  struggled  to 
restrain  showed  in  his  voice. 

"She  is  yours  still,  my  boy.  Her  heart  has  always  been 
yours." 

"You  forget!  I  am  an  escaped  convict.  Fortunately 
the  boy  and  girl  do  not  know  me  as  yet;  I  have  attended 
to  that !  They  will  not  know  until  I  come  back  with  my 
right  name.  I  have  the  plates  and  the.  promise  of  an 
honorable  man.  I  will  come  back  free.  And  this  time 
my  right  name  will  be  a  safe  asylum  for  the  wretched 
Garner!" 

"You  should  have  come  to  me,  boy;  you  owed  it  to  me 
to  come!" 

"No,  uncle;  I  think  not.  I  have  learned  that  Lena  had 
such  a  plan  in  mind, — she  and  Celeste.  I  could  not  have 
consented.  I  could  not  let  you  see  the  unhappy  Chi- 
lon— 

"I  think  you  would  not,"  said  his  uncle,  simply. 

"And  after  Richard's  death — feeling  that  I  had  caused 
it — that  Lena  looked  upon  me  as  an  assassin — again  I 
could  not!"  After  a  while  he  remembered  and  took  up 
the  papers.  "You  will  recall  that  you  heard  me  say  I 
had  seen  the  man  who  killed  Richard, — listen: 

"Upon  the  night  that  Richard  Marbeau  met  his  death 
at  my  hands,  I  came  to  the  cabin  of  the  negress  Silvy, 
bent  upon  one  more  effort  to  secure  the  plates.  I  was 
desperate  then;  but  with  them  I  held  the  future  in  my 
control.  I  had  just  ended  my  term  for  implication  in  a 
train  robbery  and  needed  money.  The  woman  had  aged 
rapidly  since  my  first  visit,  and  I  am  not  certain  that  she 
remembered  me.  I  found  Chilon  there  sick.  He  was 
delirious  with  fever  and  I  guessed  that  he  was  an  'escape.' 
I  wore  a  watch  charm,  a  flat  piece  of  amber,  about  the 
size  and  shape  of  a  silver  dollar,  that  was  covered  with 
hieroglyphics  and  queer  drawings,  very  neatly  engraved. 
It  had  been  my  mother's  and  was  said  to  be  of  African 
origin.  A  member  of  the  Archaeological  society  once 


GARNER'S  CONFESSION.  287 

told  me  that  it  seemed  to  indicate  the  name  of  certain 
plants  that  had  marked  effects  upon  the  mind  and  that  it 
was  probably  the  fetish  of  some  tribal  voodoo  or  herb 
doctor.  At  sight  of  this  the  old  woman  was  transformed. 
She  snatched  it  away  and  was  aroused  to  a  pitch  of  ec- 
stacy  or  fury,  I  could  not  tell  which.  I  believe  though 
she  would  have  embraced  me  if  I  had  permitted.  This 
old  woman  seemed  to  have  a  blood  feud  to  settle  with 
Richard  Marbeau,  and  producing  an  awful  looking  knife 
urged  me  to  kill  him,  and  to  humor  her  I  took  it  when  I 
came  in  the  storm  to  this  house  four  years  ago.  By  a 
strange  fatality  it  did  its  work.  I  entered  the  house  and 
reached  the  old  ball-room  safely,  which  I  searched  in 
vain.  It  was  there  we  had  used  the  little  press,  and  there  I 
had  thought  to  find  the  plates.  I  became  alarmed  present- 
ly at  the  number  of  people  who  had  come  to  the  house,  for 
it  was  lit  up,  and  there  was  singing  and  instrumental  mu- 
sic below,  with  footfalls  frequently  upon  the  stair.  I  had 
almost  despaired,  but  the  room  through  which  we  had 
entered  was  Chilon's,  and  there  was  a  chance  that  in 
passing  out  he  had  concealed  the  plates  there.  If  I  failed, 
then  I  would  wait  and  force  the  needed  information  from 
the  sick  man.  It  was  even  possible  that  he  had  the  plates, 
something  that  had  not  until  then  occurred  to  me. 

"The  house  was  dark  at  length  and  quiet,  and  I  was 
feeling  my  way  through  the  upper  hall  when  I  ran  against 
a  man  who  waited  by  a  bedroom  door.  We  grappled ;  I 
threw  him  off  and  rushed  for  the  corner  room,  and  en- 
tered there.  I  collided  with  Chilon  who,  in  his  delirium, 
I  believe,  had  followed  me.  The  shock  checked  me  for  a 
moment.  Richard  fired,  and  I  killed  him  with  one  blow 
of  the  knife  and  escaped,  passing  Chilon  in  the  dark.  It 
occurred  to  me  then  that  the  crime  would  be  fastened 
upon  him  and  that  again  he  would  be  the  victim  of  cir- 
cumstances; but  I  would  take  no  chances.  I  passed  the 
cabin  and  left  as  I  had  come,  by  the  river.  That  was  my 
only  murder;  it  was  forced  upon  me;  it  was  not  premedi- 


288  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

tated.  But,  murder  as  it  was,  it  did  not  compare  with  the 
wrong  I  had  done  to  Chilon  Marbeau.  My  last  visit  to 
this  fatal  spot  was  due  to  a  plot  of  my  mother's.  She 
knew  my  wish,  and  had  no  love  for  the  Marbeaus.  She 
was  willing  to  help  me,  and  only  longed  for  an  opportun- 
ity to  visit  the  home  again.  Forty  odd  years  had  passed 
since  she  was  in  it.  She  had  been  taught  in  her  youth 
that  Gaston  Marbeau's  will  made  her  his  sole  legatee  by 
trust,  but  that  will  had  disappeared.  She  believed  it  had 
been  carried  to  America  with  his  effects  when  he  went 
there  to  live.  Chance  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  destroy 
his  second,  and  the  possession  of  the  first  would,  upon  his 
death,  have  made  her  independent,  for  he  is  moderately 
rich. 

"It  was  while  planning  to  accomplish  this  end  that 
Colonel  Marbeau  brought  Lena  to  our  village  for  change 
and  a  visit  to  his  brother.  Time  had  modified  many  sor- 
rows, and  my  mother,  then  quietly  ministering  to  the 
wants  of  the  common  people  with  her  herbs  and  simple 
remedies,  went  to  see  the  new-comers.  She  received  kind 
treatment,  and  gradually  they  began  to  rely  upon  her  to 
nurse  the  sick  woman.  She  saw  in  her  the  means  of  re- 
turn to  America  and  the  accomplishment  of  her  purpose, 
and  with  the  use  of  a  decoction  whose  secret  was  one  of 
her  inheritances  from  an  African  ancestry,  she  filled  the 
poor  woman's  mind  with  vagaries  and  hallucinations;  she 
made  herself  a  necessity;  she  pleaded  a  desire  to  see  her 
native  land  again;  there  was  no  harm,  the  past  was 
sealed; —  and  so  they  took  her.  I  will  not  judge  my  own 
mother  in  this,  my  last  hour,  but  I  owe  her  nothing,  and 
to  others  I  owe  something.  She  has  the  old  will  of  Gas- 
ton  Marbeau,  and  her  purpose  is  accomplished;  but  if  it 
had  not  been  found  Lena  Marbeau  would  have  died,  in 
my  opinion ;  for  by  the  new  will  she  was  the  heir." 

"Stop!"  said  the  colonel,  rising  slowly,  and  painfully. 
"I  cannot  take  in  all  the  damnable  villainy, — let  me  see 
that  paper." 


GARNER'S  CONFESSION.  289 

He  came  and  took  the  sheet  and  reread  the  last  page. 
Presently  he  handed  it  back.  He  did  not  return  to  his 
chair.  He  motioned  to  Chilon  to  bring  it;  and  his  bent 
form  leaned  forward  to  meet  it  as  it  came. 

"Will  you  let  me  bring  you  a  glass  of  water,  uncle?" 

"No.  Proceed.  Providence  only  discloses  the  full 
wickedness  of  the  world  to  the  old.  It  helps  them  to  re- 
sign it  without  regret.  Proceed,  sir." 

"My  destruction  is  due  to  my  mother,  but  I  hold  her 
guiltless.  By  accident  she  discovered  the  secret  places  of 
the  old  desk  and  all  that  she  searched  for.  I  was  waiting 
in  the  city  to  hear  from  her,  and  came  occasionally  for 
consultation.  A  message  that  she  had  succeeded  brought 
me  when  the  house  was  full  of  people,  but  I  was  reckless. 
The  rest,  is  known.  In  my  hurried  flight  the  sight  of 
Chilon  standing  where  in  memory  I  had  seen  him  ten 
thousand  times  filled  me  with  momentary  terror.  I 
looked  back  while  on  the  roof, — and  this  is  the  end !  The 
hours  in  which  I  lay  under  that  tree,  unable  to  move  or 
cry  out,  suffering  agony  indescribable,  has  made  this  con- 
fession possible;  has  brought  me  to  direct  that  it  shall  be 
furnished  over  your  sacred  certificate  to  Chilon  Marbeau, 
to  whom  I  will  it,  as  my  only  possible  reparation." 

The  Colonel  was  looking  intently  upon  the  reader. 

"You  omitted  a  page,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"It  contains,"  said  Chilon,  "information  of  Lena  Mar- 
beau  so  astounding,  so  unexpected,  that  I  prefer  not  to 
read  it.  If  it  is  not  true,  you  would  not  wish  to  have  it 
read.  If  it  is,  there  is  no  need." 

"It  states  that  she  is  not  my  daughter,  in  fact,"  said  the 
Colonel,  sadly  and  gently, — "it  is  true.  If  it  tells  you  that 
she  is  the  daughter  of  Gaston  Marbeau, — it  is  true." 

"That  is  what  it  reveals,"  said  Chilon.  He  looked  sadly 
and  tenderly  upon  the  old  man.  He  seemed  to  be  strik- 
ing from  him  the  prop  and  mainstay  of  his  old  age. 

"There  is  no  long  story,  my  boy,  and  no  good  one  to  be 
told.  The  only  child  ever  born  to  old  Silvy  was  this  wo- 

19 


290  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

man  Merta.  Both  in  their  youth  were  beautiful,  and 
youth  is  blind.  Well,  we  sent  Gaston  to  study  abroad; 
and — "  with  a  slight  gesture — "it  did  no  good.  He  was 
lost  to  us  for  many  years.  But  later,  under  the  stimulus 
of  a  lofty  nature  set  free,  he  put  aside  his  errors  and  mar- 
ried a  dear  woman  we  loved.  Lena  is  the  child  for 
whom  she  gave  her  life.  Then  Gaston  suffered  from 
loneliness  and  despair.  Merta  found  him  disarmed  by  the 
reaction,  an  easy  victim  again.  My  wife  and  I  easily  per- 
suaded him  to  give  us  the  child  for  her  own  good,  and  it 
followed  as  we  planned.  He  came  to  us — oh,  my  boy, 
those  were  happy  days  when  Gaston  was  here  and  you 
children  stormed  the  house." 

"Does  Lena  know?"  said  the  young  man. 

"No.  I  pledged  my  honor  to  Gaston.  To  reveal  the 
fact  would  be  to  reveal  the  cause.  He  was  proudest  in 
his  degradation!" 

"She  will  not  know  from  me.  And  now,  sir,  my  task 
is  ended.  I  have  found  for  you  Chilon  Marbeau.  I  go 
away  to  clear  his  name,  and  if  I  come  again,  I  come  free 
and  with  honor." 

"Chilon!  Chilon!     Boy,  I  go  with  you " 

"No,  uncle.  Leave  it  to  me.  Your  face  must  not 
appear,  your  name  be  handled.  I  go  to  see  what  the 
promise  of  a  man  who  has  honesty  written  in  his  every 
feature,  is  worth.  This  confession  you  will  keep.  I  will 
procure  a  statement  such  as  may  be  needed  that  will  not 
contain  the  family  name.  Farewell!  If  we  meet  no 
more,  remember  always  that  Chilon  Marbeau  loved  his 
home  too  well  to  return !" 

"But  Lena — and  the  boy!"  Chilon  stood  with  down- 
cast face. 

"It  is  better  this  way,"  he  said  simply.  "I  have  talked 
with  her.  She  understands."  They  clasped  hands  and 
looked  into  each  other's  faces.  Then  silently  Chilon  re- 
leased the  hand  in  fiis  and  turned  away. 


CONCLUSION.  291 


CONCLUSION. 

Colonel  Marbeau  sat  all  alone  in  his  cool  library. 
Upon  his  table  lay  spread  the  old  sheepskin  which  held 
the  names  and  record  of  his  family.  He  had  adjusted 
his  glasses,  and,  pen  in  hand,  was  ready  to  complete  it. 
His  own  generation  closed  the  old  record,  and  other 
Marbeaus  now  awaited  recognition.  He  was  no  drafts- 
man and  a  problem  had  arisen.  As  thus  he  waited, 
there  was  a  quick,  manly  step  upon  the  veranda  and  in 
the  hall.  With  head  erect,  Chilon  Marbeau,  the  elder, 
entered  the  room.  His  uncle  read  in  his  face  the  glad 
tidings  that  had  made  the  soul  within  him  happy.  The 
two  men  stood  again  as  they  had  parted  a  week  before, 
with  clasped  hands,  gazing  into  each  other's  face. 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  younger  man;   "I  am  free!" 

"Chilon!" 

"I  found  great  souls — great,  honest  hearts.  They 
broke  down  all  technicalities."  The  promise  was  faith- 
fully kept.  A  pardon  was  issued  to  Carl  Garner,  'for 
good  and  sufficient  reasons,'  and  the  plates  went  into  the 
possession  of  the  treasury,  to  become  a  seven  days'  won- 
der and  then — mere  metal.  No  human  being  knew 
Carl  Garner,  pardoned,  merged  into  Chilon  Marbeau, 
except  one  man,  and  he,  more  than  all  the  world,  was 
most  interested  in  the  family  honor.  Robert  Underbill's 
disappearance  was  a  mystery  that  has  never  been  solved 
in  New  York.  After  a  while  his  mail  went  back  un- 
claimed, and  the  men  who  waited  in  the  dark  corners 
of  great  cities  cursed  him;  but  it  was  of  little  moment 
then." 

Two  men  gave  themselves  up  to  the  joy  of  the  hour. 
For  both,  life  had  taken  on  new  colors.  The  wanderer 
was  home  again.  Under  its  skies  and  in  the  loving  com- 
pany of  his  people  vengeance  fled  and  remorse  was  hal- 
lowed into  repentance.  Scarcely  less  bright  the  old 


292  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

man's  skies.  Lena  and  Chilon  were  at  home,  and 
Ravenswood  had  a  male  heir.  What  else  could  he  wish? 
Nothing,  except  their  company  and  that  of  the  lovers 
estranged  so  long.  They  planned  it  out  that  day.  Uncle 
Gaston  must  come,  and  Celeste  with  Robert  Aubren. 
This  was  Chilon's  ultimatum.  The  colonel  surrendered. 

"Put  away  your  writing,  uncle.  Let  us  be  going;  no 
time  like  the  present,  and  time  enough  for  that!" 

"No,  sir.  I  take  your  suggestion  as  applying  to  this. 
I  am  not  willing  to  falsify  the  record,  my  boy,  and  Lena's 
must  be  straight.  She  will  have  to  know  some  day,  and 
you  can  keep  the  document  secret  till  then.  The  trouble 
is  the  cousinship  between  you  has  made  a  cross  record 
necessary,  and  I  am  not  draftsman  enough  to  fix  it. 
This  has  occurred,  you  will  note,  many  times,  but  never 
under  the  same  circumstances." 

The  young  man  looked  upon  the  record  sadly,  and 
then  in  silence  drew  the  lines  of  descent,  and  handed  it 
back  to  his  uncle. 

"You  can  add  dates,  uncle,  and  it  will  be  complete." 

The  old  man  stood  gazing  intently  upon  the  result. 
Then  he  uttered  a  low  cry. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Chilon  in  surprise,  rising  to  stand 
by  his  side.  The  record  complete  was  thus: 

I        I         I         I 

2818     2819     2820     2821 


2822     282S     2824     2823 


W 

2827     2826 


CONCLUSION.  293 

2818— Richard  (4th). 
2819— Gaston. 
2820— Francis. 
2821— Charles. 
2822— Richard  (5th). 
2823— Celeste. 
2824— Chilou  (3rd). 
2825— Lena  (4th). 
2826— Chilou  (4th). 
2827— Lena  (5th). 

"The  'W  has  come  at  last,"  said  Colonel  Marbeau, 
smiling.  And  he  repeated  the  jingle  musingly: 

"When  'W  enters  the  Marbeau  tree, 
Happy  will  the  next  bride  be." 

"I  think  the  old  prophecy  will  be  fulfilled/'  said 
Chilon.  "The  next  bride — we  shall  make  her  happy; 
shall  we  not,  uncle?" 

"You  will  not  need  my  help,  boy!" 


L'ENVOI. 

The  sun  shone  bright  over  Ravenswood.  The  White- 
hall boat  upon  the  lake  held  a  happy  party.  Chilon  and 
Lena,  side  by  side,  on  the  broad  rear  seat,  in  low  tones 
planned  the  future  for  the  lives  blooming  so  sweetly  be- 
neath their  eyes.  The  little  girl  in  -front  held  a  bunch 
of  fair  lilies  drawn  by  little  Chilon  for  her  from  the  placid 
waters  on  which  they  were  drifting.  Upon  one  blossom 
a  great  butterfly  had  settled,  his  broad  wings  rising  and 
falling  gently  as  he  searched  for  honey.  Glass  in  hand, 
the  boy  was  studying  the  marvels  of  the  little  visitor  and 
counting  the  slow  vibrations  of  his  wings. 

"Twenty  to  the  minute,  Lena,'*  he  said,  "just  the  num- 
ber of  my  respirations."  And  presently  looking  into  the 


294  THE  MARBEAU  COUSINS. 

loving  eyes  of  his  new  found  sister,  he  said,  with  odd 
gallantry:  "Perhaps  that  respiration  is  the  vibration  of 
my  soul's  wings  as  she  waits  through  life  above  her  lily." 
She  smiled  up  to  him. 

"Her  lily,  Chilon?"  He  turned  quickly  and  touched 
his  lips  to  hers. 

"The  Lily  of  Ravenswood,  sister.  It  will  never  have 
another.'' 

Behind  them,  the  man  and  woman  exchanged  glances. 

"The  Lily  of  Ravenswood!"  exclaimed  he.  "How 
strange.  It  is  like  a  voice  from  our  youth !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  tenderly,  "each  lily  has  its 
little  day.  Look,  the  waters  are  white  with  them.  They 
were  white  with  them  in  our  times,  too,  Chilon!" 

"The  Lily  of  Ravenswood!"  he  repeated  absently. 
The  shadows  were  deep  and  melting  within  his  eyes  as 
they  rested  upon  her.  The  children  would  have  said 
that  he  listened  to  the  strains  of  some  old  song. 


THE  END. 


A     000  053  224     2 


